Poisoned
by Tom Beaumont
Summary: UPDATED 07.02.08! Jack pursues an assassin while being haunted by the ghost of Irina. Rated M for graphic violence and gore, including disturbing images, strong sexual content, and language.
1. ZERO

**ALIAS – Poisoned**

_**Synopsis:** Jack pursues an assassin who uses a terrifying poison against a group of scientists, while fighting the "ghost" of Irina. **Pre-S1.**  
_

**Rated R **for graphic violence and gore, including some disturbing images, strong sexual content, and language._  
_

**ZERO**

**April 1989.**

_For the first time in a long time, Grace was admiring herself in a full-length mirror. She had to admit she didn't look fifty, except for her silvering hair. Her skin was still in good shape, especially under her eyes and around her mouth. The concealer that they used at the spa had seemed to work to defeat the smile lines that had been developing, and hidden the tracks of the crow's feet. The yoga classes had paid off, the vegetarian diet, too. She felt a twinge of buyer's guilt as she noticed her dress. So maybe she'd spent a little too much on an outfit for a conference dinner. But it fit like a dream, and made her feel like she was mysterious and alluring, and in that basic black number, maybe she would draw a few eyes. She grabbed her handbag from the desktop, took one last look in the mirror, and made her way out the door._

_Unfortunately, the attention she'd hoped to receive didn't materialize. Sure, there were friendly glances, and a few nods, but overall, the final formal dinner had been as boring as it ever was at these particular events. But as the evening had seemed to be ending early – as it usually did – a younger man had asked if the seat next to her was taken. _

Jack was in his shower at home, cleansing and rinsing a deep cut on his left bicep. The steam had made the glass translucent. And the squeal of the hot water through the pipes covered all other sounds. At least they must have, because while his attention was on the wound, the shower door swung open, and Laura was standing on the bath mat, home from the university.

"What happened, love?" she asked, her face heavy with concern.

"Nothing," he lied. "Some rotten mugger, surprised me in the parking garage at work. Punk kid with a switchblade took a swipe at me. Sydney didn't see it." Jack frowned, hoped she'd buy it. "It's not as bad as it looks. I'll be okay."

"That makes my awful day somewhat trivial now," Laura said softly. She met his dark eyes with hers, then slowly scanned his naked form, pretending to look for other bruises. Reached into the needles of water, touching his arms, his face, his torso. Caressed his back, her shirtsleeve becoming drenched. Then she said something he couldn't quite hear, something about making sure her husband got nice and clean. Didn't want to have to take him to a hospital, and have to share him with the nurses in ICU.

And as she spoke, she loosed her hair. Unbuttoned her linen blouse. Stepped out of her shoes. Let her gabardine slacks fall. Unfastened her black lace bra. Slipped her thumbs under the elastic of her panties, and slid them down her legs. She did all of these things with a seducer's deliberation, her dark eyes never leaving his. Even when she was undressed, she stood before him, unblinking and unashamed.

Jack drank in the sight of his wife's athletic body, glorious and exquisite. But he was frozen, even under the force of the hot water, and the drive of his desire. She shouldn't be here, he was thinking. She's not Laura. The wife. She's Irina. The enemy. And she's dead.

Dead a long time, he thought.

"Oh, Jack, you silly man. It's Laura," she whispered, taking a step into the shower. "Your wife." Ducking under the water. "Your friend." Soaking her dark hair. "Your lover." Reaching for him. "Touch me, Jack, like you do, or I'll just die," she said. And as he stepped into the weight of her, felt the delicious pressure of her lips against his neck, he noticed her fingertips melting and twisting into black talons and piercing his abdomen….

Jack bolted upright in bed. His pager was screaming on the night table next to him. He snatched it into his palm and shut off the alarm. Not again. He rubbed his eyes and tried to read the display. 911, it said. He needed to get to a phone.

_Ryan Corcoran was a doctoral candidate at Michigan, at least according to the laminated ID card dangling from the lanyard around his neck. Grace remembered him: he'd been in almost all of her seminars, asked some interesting questions; one or two that had even caught her a little off-guard. He was apologetic from the start tonight – he admitted that he'd gravitated toward her through the evening, wanting to have a few private moments with her, maybe she'd share some wisdom with him about the world he would be entering. Now, he was on the chair next to her, listening to her prattle on and on about her research subjects. He was sweet about it. Just listening to her, smiling and nodding in camaraderie, and every once and a while, tossing in another one of those questions that made her have to pause. She couldn't help notice that he looked a bit different tonight. Yes, he wasn't dressed as casually as he'd been for the Q & A sessions, but that wasn't all of it. He seemed taller, more confident. Or maybe it was the fact he wasn't wearing those thick eyeglasses._

_She certainly took note of his hands. They were strong, stronger than most any men she'd had contact with over the last few years. They made her think of her husband, gone five years now_._ He'd been her best friend. They met in college, when she was a gawky sophomore majoring in chemistry, and he was a decidedly not gawky senior English major. She'd fallen for him well before she knew that he had fallen for her. And on the first night they made love, six months after they first met, but before finding the narrow bed in his dorm room, they'd been in a place not unlike this, and she had been prattling on about some experiment, and he stopped her heart with a kiss._

"_I'm sorry, Dr. Donnelly," the young man said. He hesitantly put one of his hands on hers._

"_Sorry?" she asked, realizing that her eyes were burning with tears._

_He handed her a handkerchief. "You look so sad. If you want to be alone – "_

"_No," she said. "You're doing just fine."_

"_I am?" he asked, blushing a bit._

_"Yeah," she said, folding her hands over his._

Jack swung his legs off the bed, stood up, and as he rose from between the sheets, noticed the room was not his. The walls were prettied up with some framed lithographs: a shrunken Monet, a stretched-out Van Gogh, and someone else's work he couldn't think of just now. A torn Union Jack muscle shirt, with scribbled autographs on it, also had a place of honor, but not a frame. Just thumbtacks. Definitely not his selections. And the tufted carpet under his feet was certainly not his. As he looked down to see the floor, he saw that he was naked. And he'd been busy. "Oh, brother," he muttered. He scanned the shag carpet for his discarded slacks.

"You okay?" a dusky, drowsy voice asked.

Jack turned back toward the bed. The blonde that was looking at him must have owned it. She crawled onto the bedclothes and rested lazily on her haunches, seeming unaware of her own nudity.

Jesus, he thought, finding his eyes scanning her build. She was a Greek sculpture, with a rock-n-roll mane, tousled and tawny. And somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty-five. "Yeah," he replied, indicating his pager. "Work. Where's your phone?"

"In the living room," she said. The blonde cocked her head a bit. "You sure you're okay? You look like you're lost."

"I'm fine. Just a bit out of sorts. The pager waking me and all." Jack shook his head. He started to leave the room.

"You want a pick-me-up?" the girl asked.

"A what?" Jack replied.

The girl gave him a sideways glance. "You know," she said, a sly smile on her lips. "A pick-me-up."

Jack blinked. "Maybe after I call my boss."

_Forty minutes later, Ryan and Grace were standing at her door. He'd insisted on walking her back to her room, with the pretext of asking her about some paper she'd consulted on, but on the way up in the elevator, he embraced her with a surprising intensity, and pressed his lips on to hers. For some reason, she not only let him, but also returned the affection with a deeper kiss of her own._

_She unlocked her hotel room door. "Come in, if you want," she said._

The blonde had walked Jack out to the front gate, dressed only in a remarkably short silk robe, ostensibly to let him out. But as he was leaving, she snuck a quick kiss onto his blank expression, and dropped her phone number into his jacket. "Just in case you liked the hospitality," she said.

Jack nodded. Tried to give her a smile. He noticed the boxy edges of a five-year old navy Ford sedan across the street. "That's me," he said, fishing the words out as best he could. Then he bolted through the now-open gateway, and crossed to the car. As he popped open the passenger door, and slid onto the seat, he noticed the driver. Just my luck, Jack thought. They sent Maxwell. The last person he wanted to see this early in the morning at this particular location. Well, maybe not the last, exactly.

_It didn't take long for Grace and Ryan to be lying together on top of the bed. In between soft, wet kisses, he unzipped her dress, then lowered his face to her breasts, his mouth finding her awakened flesh through the cups of her dark strapless brassiere. His nimble fingers worked the hooks beneath the smooth satin, and freed her smallish bosom. Grace was about to mumble a weak apology about her cup size, but then his lips brushed against her nipples, and the apology transformed into a moan._

"Jack, you are my new hero," Maxwell said after the car door had shut.

Jack was as polite as possible. "Shut up, Al."

Al didn't. "That is something I have no talent for. Scoring beautiful, bountiful young women like that. That's it. From now on, I'm living vicariously through you."

Jack stared straight ahead. "You understand that I will hit you. And it will very likely cause your death."

"Jeez, Jack, you just laid a hot blonde." He glanced in the rearview mirror, noticing the flounce of the woman's robe, which showed off her long legs, and just a hint more. Al pointed to the mirror. "With a perfect peach of an ass."

"Knock it off, Al," Jack growled.

"Jesus, sorry." Al steered the car back into traffic without a last glance. "I thought sex might mellow you a little, like it does for most everyone."

Jack shook his head. "It's time to work, Al," he said. "We're going where?"

Al groaned. "The Westchester. Apparently somebody the CIA cares about is dead."

Jack popped open the glove compartment and noticed the credentials lying on top of the owner's manual. He withdrew one, noticing the badge on the outside. "FBI on this one?"

"Yeah, FBI," Al said, like the initials made his head hurt. "AD Kendrick already set the cover for us, just in case LA's finest decide they don't want us sniffing around their case. I tried to tell him that my old RHD shield would have been enough to get us through the door, but no."

Jack watched the streetlights pass. "He's ahead of himself today, isn't he?"

"Oh, yeah. Mathers taking that job in London, it just fed the promotion bug that's square up his ass; I guess he thinks that if he can impress a few of the higher-ups with his quick, decisive manuevering, he'll finally win that desk lottery."

Jack chuckled a bit. Kendrick wasn't as bad as Maxwell thought, just not the best director of field operatives. Still, though, he had to agree about posing as FBI agents. What, was hearing CIA too scary? "I need coffee," Jack decided aloud. "It's too damn early, I didn't get much sleep – don't say a word – and I can't go see a corpse without being semi-conscious myself, so it's time for a cup of coffee."

Al nodded. "Time for a little pick-me-up, huh?"

"No thanks. Already had one this morning," Jack said. A pleased look crossed his face.

Al feigned shock, then shot his partner an impish grin. "Quit bragging," he said, as he steered the car into the parking lot of a Dunkin' Donuts and cut the engine.

_As she felt Ryan's mouth pressing kisses into her hungry skin, the scientific centers of Grace's mind were still buzzing. He was moving down her body, sampling patches of her, lingering when she reacted with some extremity. There were no pauses in his movement, any stops for him to remove his shirt and tie and slacks. But she could feel the brush of his skin against hers, the cut of his muscles, the heat of his being. Grace found herself wrestling with this. Perhaps she had simply drunk too much at the mixer, retired to her room alone as usual, and had begun dreaming of a tryst she never could have. And yet, when his eyes met hers again, and he kissed her mouth, that feeling of nerves and hair and skin pressing against each other told her that he was indeed here and real and undressed. Grace's logical mind was beginning to tick off protestations against this particular activity, but the heating of her blood was pushing all those thoughts away, and they were being replaced by those primal hungers that she had forgotten about._

Jack sipped from his coffee as Al parked next to a police cruiser, which wasn't more than twenty feet from the front doors of this luxury hotel. His mind flashed to a remembered rendezvous here – inside an eleventh floor room, on this tremendous king-size, with a dark-eyed woman he'd just met –

Not. Laura.

– at a dinner party for some State Department official. "I'm only in town for a couple of days," she'd said, a few hours before she invited him upstairs for a proper glass of Bourbon.

She'd smelled so clean. And she kissed like she meant it. Hungry. When she had unbuttoned his shirt, and put her mouth over his, and used her tongue and lips and teeth, he could have sworn she had learned it from –

Irina was staring at Jack through his side mirror. He saw her, clear as day. A little smile on her lips told him that she knew that. She puckered, then grinned.

– French-Indonesian girl. Nathalie. French by birth. Paris, she said.

She died in Cairo. Nine bullets. One point-blank to her left eye. Now she was staring at Jack in the mirror. Her left eye trickled blood down her cheek.

A finger snap. "Yoo-hoo, Jack. No time for reverie. If you're going to bitch about working this early, you can't fall into catatonia."

Jack's eyes drifted over and noticed the mirror was empty. He opened his door.

The exterior of the Westchester was aesthetically pleasing, even in the dim light of an early morning, and the doormen were eager to smile and tip their caps at the men with the FBI badges. The inside was just as posh, with long leather sofas, Persian rugs underfoot, and a pair of marble staircases that spiraled up and away from the lowly lobby. Al shook his head. "I'll probably get billed for breathing in here," he muttered.

"No," Jack replied. "But don't sit down." He turned toward the elevators, ignoring the front desk clerk, who was juggling telephone calls and a group of people milling at the counter who seemed to be loaded with questions that she couldn't answer.

As they showed their credentials to the baby-faced uniformed cop by the elevator, Al indicated to Jack the placard that he noticed: WELCOME – NORTH AMERICAN SOCIETY OF GENETICISTS.

"This is gonna be some thrill ride," Al said.

_Ryan laced fingers with her. She moved that hand to her lips and began kissing – then suckling – his thumb. "Are you ready, Grace?" he asked._

_She nodded, her face flushed, but not from exhaustion._

_Ryan's smile broadened._

The elevator doors opened. A pair of plainclothes homicide detectives stood before them, attempting not to look agitated. "Jeff Roper," the younger said. "My partner, Larry Garcia," he added. They both gave Al and Jack's authentic-looking credentials a close study. "What's the FBI doing here?" Roper finally asked.

"Just hoping to find out what you know," Al replied. "Our boss is friendly with the owner of the hotel. Went to college with him or something. Just wanted to have us take a look around, offer a hand, which I can tell you don't need."

"Damn right," Garcia said.

"We're not here to steal your case. We just want to get some details," Jack said.

After a long moment, Roper shook his head and sighed. "Don't spill coffee in my crime scene," he said, then motioned the others to follow him.

_Grace could hear her pulse pounding, as Ryan moved his hips against hers, and her body reacting in kind. Her eyes closed for a moment, riding the waves of pleasure that were rolling up her spine. Her skin tingled, and her eyes opened to see the face of the man who was bringing her to the brink of…_

The detectives led Al and Jack into the hotel room. The forensics team was on-site, snapping pictures of the room, dusting for prints on the dressing table, and scanning the carpet with an ultra-violet light. The body on the bed was nude, and where the skin wasn't bruised and purplish-black, it was split-apart and bloody. The belly was burst open, and entrails were emerging from underneath the skin.

"My God," Jack said. He looked over at Al, who was beyond pale.

The younger detective nodded in empathy, but started his detail of the scene. "DOA's a white female, mid-fifties. Driver's license in the purse says the name's Grace Donnelly."

…_**oh, no…**_

"What happened to her?" Al asked, sounding a bit choked.

Roper shook his head in frustration. "Your guess is as good as mine. There's evidence of intercourse, but no signs of struggle. And what rape has ever caused someone's stomach to do that?"

…_Ryan's face was bloody. His mouth was ringed crimson. And he was still smiling. Like a wolf might._

"From what we've gathered so far, she was attending the conference here," Garcia said. He looked at his notebook. "Genetics researcher at Stanford, three Ph. D degrees in fields that sound really impressive - and which I can't even pronounce – and popular tenured professor. Respected in her field, her peers had nothing bad to say about her, and yet…there she is."

_Suddenly, Grace's chest felt heavy. It was becoming more and more difficult to breathe. Intense pain spidered through her, as her eyes began to cloud, making it almost impossible to see. She instinctively knew that tears weren't interfering with her sight. She tried to scream, but her throat betrayed her. A sudden spasm arched her back, driving her head and shoulders into the pillow._

"What was her specialty?" Jack asked. "Anyone tell you that?"

Garcia glanced back at his book. "Plant genetics, with an eye towards forestry."

"So building a better tree, or whatever," Al said through gritted teeth.

"Yeah," Garcia said, shooting a quick glare at Al. "She was at all the events, including last night's banquet. Two different people said they saw her leaving around ten-thirty."

"Alone?" Jack asked.

"None of the witnesses noticed anyone with her," he replied. "Just our luck."

_She could see Ryan above her, his horrifying grin filtered through the dark. Wanted to scream. Wanted to fight. But she had no muscles. _

_And then, she saw stars. And black. Twinkling black. And blood flowed hot from her nose and filled her mouth. Then a piercing pain in her chest – but just for an instant. Her body twitched a final time, then sank into the bedclothes. Her jaw relaxed, her lips parted just a bit, and dark fluid poured onto the pillowcase and saturated the light fabric, just as Ryan's back arched and stiffened, and he cried out, released._

"Detectives," the forensics leader interjected. "Take a look at this." He led the quartet to the bedside and pointed at the pool of near-black liquid that was drying into the soft pillow.

"What is that, blood?" Roper asked.

"No, I don't think so," the forensics leader said.

"Get a sample to the lab. Find out what it is," Roper said to the man.

"Could we get some of that, too?" Al asked, a bit of fascination in his voice. Jack noticed that his partner was staring at the liquid, the color still away from his cheeks. "We'll take it to our lab, get a second set of results for you," Al said.

The detectives seemed to stiffen at that. "We let you look around. That's as far as you said you wanted to go," Garcia sniffed.

"Let's not get territorial, fellas," Jack said. "All my partner is suggesting is that we could help you. I could care less about taking credit for catching the guy. But I would like to see him caught."

The detectives looked at each other for a moment. Then Roper turned his head to the forensics leader. "Get a second sample for the agents," he said.

_Ryan's body shuddered, then relaxed. He tilted her slackened face to his. "Oh, Grace. You were even better than I hoped," he purred, gazing into her unseeing eyes. Then he rose from the bed and began to pick his clothes from the floor as he headed to the bathroom door. He paused and looked at the dead woman again. "Thanks for letting me come inside," he said, just as he stepped onto the tile and shut the door._

Jack and Al exited the lobby through an already-opened door, and walked down the sidewalk to their car. Almost as soon as the morning sunlight hit his face, Al was taking large gulps and gasps of the outside air. "You know," Jack said, "you're probably better off breathing the corpse gas."

Al scowled. "Maybe, but at least the air out here has the tiniest hint of oxygen in it." He cleared his throat and spat on the sidewalk. "What the hell happened to that woman, Jack?" he asked, his voice ragged. "And what did she ever do to deserve dying like that?"

Jack shook his head. "God knows."

"That'll be a real comfort to her friends and family," Al said, coughing. He pressed the car keys into Jack's palm. "If you could. I think I might puke."

Jack scanned his partner's green face. Then he held the vial up to the increasing daylight. The few drops of mystery liquid gleamed in the sunlight. "What do you think it could be?" he asked Al.

Al shuddered as he opened the passenger door. "Whatever it is, I don't want any on me."

As Jack dropped the vial into a plastic bag and sealed it, he glanced across the street at the sidewalk café that was opening for breakfast. A few of the cops were standing around drinking coffee from tall white cups, while four or five civilians were bobbing and weaving among them, picking at their pastries, nursing drinks of their own, and quietly resenting the intrusion by the LAPD and all the other strangers.

Jack would have sworn that Irina was at one of the tables, watching him, but a jogger crossed his field of vision, and she vanished again. He shook his head as he opened his door. "She's dead," he mumbled. "Dead a long time."

_The man who'd been Ryan Corcoran the night before now sat across the street from the Westchester, drinking steaming coffee from a Styrofoam cup. He studied the Federal agents who walked out of the hotel. The younger one had a sick expression painted across his cheeks. The older, more solid one, he seemed unfazed by the sights inside, and seemed to be staring at a small item in his hand. Probably a sample from the crime scene, the man thought. He noticed the older man paying close attention to the activity on his side of the street. Had he been noticed, even recognized?_

_No matter, the former Corcoran thought, staying cool. The compound was untraceable. And even if it could be traced, it certainly wouldn't come back to him. This idea was confirmed by the older man, who slipped into his car instead of crossing the street, and then drove away. The man allowed them a full minute to disappear before he walked over to the garbage barrel and dropped the half-full cup – as well as the laminated ID and lanyard – into it. He wasn't going to need any of those things any more. He turned his body in the opposite direction, which would eventually lead him to the car his employer had promised. And the money. A nice little bonus for a job well done, he thought. Although, he added, a smile creeping onto his face, Grace had been bonus enough._

**TO BE CONTINUED...**_  
_


	2. ZERO PLUS ONE

**ALIAS: POISONED******

**ZERO PLUS ONE**

CIA HEADQUARTERS  
LOS ANGELES OFFICE

Al poked his head into what some of the field agents had nicknamed "The A/V Club", but was clearly labeled "Tech Analysis and Research Division". He was only there to kill time, really. Kendrick had just given him the order to send his partner home. That was something Al had no wish to do, but in truth, he couldn't disagree with the order, either. Jack needed to rest, even if he decided to do that with Al's head mounted on his office wall.

But Al knew there was also no reason to not check the progress. The research people in the office were top-notch – maybe they'd found something. Al decided to hope for the best as he swung the door open and stepped inside.

There was only one analyst manning the walls of flickering monitors and computer keyboards and technological bric-a-brac; a short, skinny woman with eyeglasses that gave him the impression that she could see through time. He knew her name, but it was eluding him for some reason. They were introduced at the unofficial Christmas party last year, he was sure – but she'd been without the glasses, and her hair had been down, and she was fairly soused. And they had danced and drank too much and –

She turned to see the man who'd stepped into her domain. His blue eyes met her green ones. The corners of her mouth rose as she blushed.

_Oh, Christ_, Al thought, as the memory of her shrieking his name in delight, came flooding back to him.

"Hi, Al," she purred.

"Hi," he replied sheepishly, while desperately combing his memory for a hint to her name, and added, "_you_."

"So, Al," she said, smiling broadly, and running her fingertips under the lapel of her blazer, "what can I do you for?"

She clearly wasn't thinking about work now, and Al could feel it. "Jack Bristow and I, we're working on that Donnelly murder, and I was wondering if anything had turned up," Al said, deciding to launch into work talk, thus attempting to dodge any other thoughts that might have appeared.

It seemed to have the desired effect. "We've been monitoring," she said, no longer flirtatious. She picked up a manila file folder. "One of our people inside the LAPD reported that there was a laminated ID from the conference found in a trash can across the street."

"Do we have it yet?"

"No, but we're efforting. If we can't retrieve the item, we'll at least have photos and prints."

"Any other news from our inside man?"

"It's early yet. He'll be in touch." Then her eyes warmed again. "Speaking of being…in touch," she said, slowly taking his hand. "I know I said we couldn't because we work together – "

"And I respect you so much for that," Al replied, furrowing his brow.

"I've – thought about you. A lot," she whispered.

She was practically glowing, all wishes and hopes, until it was radiating through her skin like heat. And much to his own surprise, he found himself not wanting to disappoint her. "Me, too," he lied. "But – you and me – we're in a dangerous life. No security, no promises. Last Christmas, you helped me get through a tough, tough time. And I won't lie to you and say you weren't amazing - " he said, letting his voice shake a bit, while thinking, _because I honestly don't remember most of it._

"But we have to cling to our duties to the agency," she said, completing his sentence. "Last time, I was the one who said that," she added, trying to sound wry, but mostly coming off as sad. She let go of his hand, and lowered her gaze.

Looking at her clouding eyes, it hit him. "So, Miss Steinman, you'll find me the minute you hear anything?" he asked.

Her eyes met his again, and she smiled. "Certainly, Mr. Maxwell," she said. As Al offered a half-smile and spun toward the door, he heard her say, "You want to hear something weird? I thought you might have forgotten my name."

Al turned back and gave her an amused chuckle, then backed out of the room.

It wasn't until he'd cleared her sight that he shook off the expression. He decided to find some coffee before going to see Jack. _Kill a little more time_, he thought_. Maybe run into another woman I've slept with and forgot about_, he added. _Make the day complete._

* * *

WINDSOR HOTEL  
LONDON 

A tall, thin man sat alone, excepting an empty teapot and a plate of biscuit crumbs next to him, and read through his London Times. The sun was out – strangely enough – and was strong enough to make him have to wear an old pair of sunglasses. That was why he was on the balcony of his hotel suite. But the air was still cool, and there would be rain soon enough, so he had a light jacket, and he was close to the door, in case the rain started again.

The cordless telephone on the table beside the china let out its cry. He answered it on the third ring, just as he'd been instructed. "Is our business completed?" he asked.

"As of seven a.m., New York time," the other voice replied.

"Where's my verification?" he queried. "I need it to authorize any transfers."

"It's being slipped under your door as we speak," the voice said. "See for yourself."

The man turned and looked through the beveled glass of the door, and saw a manila envelope slide through toward him. The voice said, "Go get it. I'll wait."

* * *

Jack stared at Grace Donnelly's biography. He'd called it up on his computer screen, so it was his fault that his eyelids were drooping from the first words. He tried to keep his interest by writing down certain career details. _Eleven years aggregate at two pharmaceutical companies_, he noted_, nine years at a genetics division of a seed corn company, five years consultant to a logging consortium._

_Building a better tree_, Jack remembered, stifling a yawn. _And definitely not deserving of murder_, he added.

Irina was sitting opposite him. "You're sure?" she asked.

Jack was about to respond when he noticed that Al had appeared in the doorway, holding a paper cup. When Jack glanced back at the chair – of course, she was gone. She wasn't there to begin with. Jack pretended to yawn to cover his imagining.

"Thrilling stuff, huh?" Al asked.

"Mm-hm," Jack replied. "Just what I needed to start my day." He didn't sound convinced.

Al shook his head. "Yeah, I hear you. You know, what you need is to go home."

Jack snorted at that suggestion. "Yeah. That's a great idea."

"I'm serious," Al said. "Tell everyone you're sick. Unplug the phone. Catch a quick nap in your own bed." He peered into the cup. "Spend time with your daughter, if she's around, maybe."

At that, Jack's eyelids snapped to attention. "It's not even ten a.m. yet," he replied, gesturing to a wall clock. "I'll go home when it is time to go home." Jack started tapping keys again.

"Jack," Al said, with some finality. "It's not a request."

Jack glared at his partner. An uncomfortable silence reigned. Then, through his teeth, he said, "I don't think you've got the authority…"

"It's not from me, Jack," Al replied, a look of resignation on his face.

* * *

The man flipped through the pictures of Grace Donnelly's ruined body. "I'm impressed," he said, in a flat, unaffected tone. 

"You should be," the voice replied.

He stopped at the fifth photo, and gazed at it intently, remarking, "And you say the solution worked as quickly as we'd projected."

"Efficiently, too. I used less than half the recommended dosage."

The man moved to the next image, a much closer inspection of her burst-open belly. His expression remained granite, even in the light of the clinical detail. "That's excellent news," he said. "I'll note that in my report to the others. Any ill effects for you?"

"Only one, really," the voice replied. "I won't get to fuck her again." There was a mock-wistfulness in his tone.

The man did blanch at that. "I don't care for your choice of words."

An amused snort from the other end. "Well, then, allow me to rephrase. She was quite good in bed. Rather tasty, in fact. Those lonely older ladies, they're something special." The voice on the other end was soft, satisfied. "But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

The man grimaced, but tried to keep it out of his voice as he said, "I require your services in an additional - and related - matter." He slipped the photos back into the envelope.

"When and where?"

"Tonight. Lyon, France." The man dropped the envelope on to the table.

The other voice was quiet for a moment, then said, "I'm not available today. Especially to go to France."

The man didn't waste a word. "Your payment for Los Angeles plus fifty percent."

"Plus a hundred-fifty percent," the voice replied.

The man smirked. "A hundred percent."

Another pause, then, "All of a sudden, my calendar is open."

* * *

Kendrick was attempting to write something on a notepad and then scribbling over it furiously when Jack materialized on the carpet. "I'm working on something, Paul," he said, standing at his full height in front of his supervisor's desk. "You cannot simply send me home while I'm working on something." 

Kendrick frowned, dropping the pen on to his desk blotter. Jack's sudden appearance in his office was a bit startling. "I'm aware that you're working," he said, not showing his surprise. He looked Jack square in the eye. "Did you forget that you aren't a lone wolf anymore? There's an office full of qualified, capable agents who can help. Not excluding your partner. Or the entire LAPD, for that matter. It's really their case, right?"

"I'm not excluding Al, or the police," Jack protested. "And I'll accept whatever assistance I can get from this office, that office, or any other. But in this office, only Al and I saw what happened to that woman's corpse, or whatever was left of it. Saw that – fluid – leaking from the mouth of a paid CIA source. And I need to help Al as much as he needs to help me. So pardon me for caring about a CIA asset, Paul, but this is my – our – case. And I am here for the duration."

"You've made that painfully clear." Kendrick shook his head. "The fluid's in our lab's possession now, correct?"

"Yes, and a second sample is on a plane to Langley right now for additional study. As soon as anyone knows anything about it, they're instructed to contact me, nobody else."

"Then go home," Kendrick replied. "Wait for the call."

Jack laughed humorlessly. "See, I'm trying to stop an assassin from killing again. That's what a real field agent does, understand? Unlike you bureaucratic fuckers, I don't just pick up and go home."

"Don't push me, Jack," Kendrick snarled. "I am sick and tired of taking shit from one of my subordinates because he's on a mission to save the world without giving a good God damn about the rules. You want to stay on this investigation, you want to stay in this office, you get the fuck back in line."

Jack tried to contain his anger. "God damn it, Paul, that fluid's the biggest piece of evidence we have. And you don't seem to care."

"You think I don't care that Grace Donnelly was murdered?" Kendrick's eyes were ablaze. "Why the hell do you think I sent you guys over to that hotel this morning? Just because she was an asset? She was a friend of mine, you shit." Angry tears began to roll down his cheeks. He wiped them away with his palms. "I was her first contact in the agency. I know her kids by name. They don't even know she's dead yet, because I promised the police that I would tell them. And I haven't had the guts to pick up the phone."

Jack's fury was dissipated by his shame. "I'm sorry," was all he could muster.

Kendrick grabbed a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and dried his eyes. "Al will be here, and he will stay on top of it," he said. "Until the lab calls, you're staying home."

"What good can I do there?" Jack asked.

"What good are you here?" Kendrick shot back. "In case you haven't noticed, Jack, Al has already picked up your slack, but he can't stretch himself too much further."

Jack lowered his voice. "Is this him talking?"

"No, it's me, Jack. It's what I've noticed." Kendrick turned and looked out his window. "I can't have you nodding off during morning briefings. Or barricading yourself in your office, or disappearing for a three-hour liquid lunch every day."

Jack eyed the floor. "Not every day."

"Maybe not now," Kendrick replied.

Jack's gaze found his boss's. "So you're suspending me, or what?"

Kendrick shook his head. His eyes were reddened and moist. "Go home, Jack. Rest awhile. Spend some time with Sydney. How is she?"

_Alive and well_, Jack thought. _At least, she was the last time I saw her._ "She's fine. Had a class trip to San Francisco over the weekend."

"She'd be home by now, right?"

"Yes. Probably," he replied, although, honestly, Jack didn't know.

Kendrick sniffled. He appeared to be considerably calmer, but still not settled. "This is not a disciplinary action. No papers have been filed, Langley hasn't been notified. There are people around here who worry about you. Myself included. I consider you one of the top members of the agency, and that doesn't figure in your reputation outside this office. You might be able to coast on your natural talents on most things, but if you're staying on this case," he said, pausing to catch his breath, "I need you at your best, your sharpest. That means I need you rested. And sober."

Under most circumstances, Jack would have wanted to punch his supervisor right in the stomach for saying something like that, but not now. Instead, he nodded. "You might be right," he said. "If it's all right, I'll have Al drive me home. He and I need to go over some things."

Kendrick nodded his approval, then returned to his desk. Jack left the office, trying to reason away his embarrassment.

* * *

The man sipped the last of his now cold tea, and set the cup back on the saucer. "You'll find your ticket and papers when you arrive at Heathrow. Hope you don't mind having to take two planes in one day." He noticed a strange taste in his mouth. A bitterness. He dismissed it – _must have been an off-brand, _he thought. 

"Don't worry about me," came the reply. "You've got bigger concerns. The people we work for, for example."

"You're not wrong," the thin man said. "That reminds me, where's the rest of the solution? I need to account for it, since you didn't use it all."

Silence on the other end, then, in a measured tone, "It's here."

"Where? In Anytown, USA, you mean?" the man said, smirking.

"No." There was a smug satisfaction in the voice.

"Then where?" The man noticed that his mouth felt dry, and bit the inside of his lip to get the juices flowing again. But instead, the bitterness intensified.

There was more silence over the phone. Then: "Here."

The man's eyes narrowed. Now there was pain. And the taste of blood. "With you?"

"Yeah," replied the voice. "And you, too."

* * *

"I can't believe you, Al," Jack said from the passenger seat. "Going to Kendrick behind my back." He stared out the window. 

"I didn't go to Kendrick," Al replied, sounding offended. "You started snoring in the middle of his meeting. The man looked like he was going to pop. You'd still be in the conference room if I didn't wake you up, and you'd be out of a job if I hadn't told him it was my fault you hadn't slept."

"Your fault?" Jack asked.

Al sighed. "Told him I went out to a bar last night. You were supposed to meet me, but you were late. I got hammered, hit on anything in a skirt, and just as I was about to get my ass kicked by some guy, you showed up and saved the day. He tried to shake me on that story, details-wise, but I didn't budge." Al's frown was hard now. "Kendrick almost bought it, I think, seeing how he believes I'm a fuck-up anyway."

Jack kept his attention out his window, and was quiet for a long minute. Then, he faced his partner. "I'm sorry," he said, with some finality. "It was just that he was specific in his accusations. That I'm drinking too much, that I'm not focused when I'm at work. I thought you might have – "

Al offered a half-smile. "Jack, I wasn't kidding when I said you're my hero. Besides, I know what it is to be a good partner. You take up for your guy, like you know he'd take up for you."

"I trust you're staying on top of the Donnelly case, then?"

Al nodded. "I saw that body, too."

"She was a friend of Kendrick's. He admitted it to me," Jack said.

Al shook his head in disbelief. "That stinks," he said finally. "No wonder he was so quiet during the slide show. Poor guy."

"So what's your next move?" Jack asked.

"We're actually a bit ahead of the curve," Al replied. He turned off the wider, straighter street, and onto a winding suburban avenue. "Analysis has already been alerted that there was an ID retrieved from a café across the street…"

Jack thought, _I saw her there._

Al was still talking when his attention returned. "Any prints on it, we'll find out. I'm going to comb the security camera tapes, see if there were any familiar faces hanging around. If Donnelly had CIA connections, especially with the AD of an office, then she might have had enemies."

"That makes sense," Jack agreed. "Also check in with those detectives we met this morning. If their crime lab was able to pull any new evidence from the scene, we can pass that along to our people."

Al nodded as he turned on to a tree-lined street. "I've already tasked a couple of analysts to double-check witness statements. And our police department source is keeping his ear to the ground in case anybody had their memories come back."

Jack exhaled, noticing his house just ahead. "Sounds like a plan. Call me right away if you find anything."

Al grinned. "You're number one on the speed dial."

* * *

"Me, too? What do you – _aghh?_" the man asked, beginning to feel a rush of panic when his throat snapped shut mid-question. He scanned the windows of buildings around him. His face was suddenly burning. 

The voice was coy. "I already knew about Lyon. I'm supposed to be there next week."

"Next – what?" he choked. Suddenly, the heat had spread through his entire body. He pulled off his coat, but the heat only grew more intense.

"They gave me the hundred-fifty. L.A., plus a hundred." A long pause. "_Plus fifty_."

A wave of pain ripped through the man's body. He felt his stomach muscles straining against forces from the inside – a distention that couldn't be relieved. He could even hear the sounds of popping – and even tearing – going on deep within his torso. And as he opened his mouth to speak, he choked and coughed, and blood spattered the phone. His voice gurgled, "…why," wetting the phone even more.

The voice on the other end was smug now. "If you have to ask, you don't deserve to know." Then, in response to a groan, he added, "Bet your throat's really sore. Too bad you're out of tea."

The man dropped the phone and clutched his chest, feeling like nails were being driven into his still-pounding heart. Then a spasm, unlike any he'd ever felt before. It sped from the base of his spine, all the way up to the back of his skull, and as it moved, it snapped individual vertebrae along the column like dry twigs. And then, almost like an afterthought, his being seized again, but this time his body was limp and uncontrolled. His musculature, now operating on an electrical impulse his nervous system had nothing to do with, flung him, back first, through the glass door, like a rag doll tossed aside by an angry child.

The thin man lay on the carpet for moment, seizure finished. Through one open eye, he noticed his legs dangling through the now shattered frame, and noticed too, the fat raindrops beginning to fall on to the table top outside. Then there was blackness, and he was no longer in a position to notice the rain, or to even care.

**TO BE CONTINUED…**


	3. ZERO PLUS TWO

**POISONED**

**ZERO PLUS TWO**

THE BRISTOW RESIDENCE  
LOS ANGELES

Jack turned his key in the deadbolt, feeling the weight of his carry-on bag and his briefcase for the first time today. Maybe he did need the rest. Maybe being home was the right call.

As he opened the front door of his house, the heady, rich smells of malt and vanilla and butter wafted into his nostrils. At first his stomach growled – it was a sweet, wonderful aroma, after all – but then his hunger pang was gone when he noticed the hints of orange and lemon oils, and remembered that it was Laura's –

**Irina's**

- recipe. He could hear giggling from his kitchen, and the sizzle of a griddle. "Sydney?" he called.

The giggling ceased, like a blanket had been thrown over the sound. Jack removed his suit coat and walked into the kitchen. There his eyes found his soon-to-be fourteen-year old daughter and another girl, about the same age. The counters were only lightly floured, and the tile floor showed no signs of spills. Jack was mildly surprised, but kept it off his face. He couldn't make a sandwich without trashing a significant portion of his kitchen. "What's all this?" he asked, his words gesturing to the other girl, long-haired, and dark-eyed.

Sydney found her voice. "Dad. This is Karen. Jimenez. She's in Model UN with me." The buzzer sounded on the waffle iron, and Sydney flipped open the lid. Karen cautiously lifted the waffle from the hot surface and onto a waiting plate, while Sydney eyed her father's stoic expression, trying to read him, and not having much luck. "We got back from San Francisco around nine," Sydney continued. "Her mom was still at work, so I had her come over here, and we were hungry, 'cause we missed breakfast, so we decided to make waffles. 'Cause we had all the stuff."

"I see," Jack said, thinking about something else, but still not showing his cards. "Does Karen's mother know she's here?"

"We called her before we started cooking," Sydney said. "She'll be here before one."

Jack nodded. It felt robotic, even to him. "Good," he said. "I'll be upstairs if you need me."

"How was Boston?" Sydney asked as he turned away.

"Uneventful," he replied as he walked out.

* * *

WINDSOR HOTEL  
LONDON 

The concierge was admiring his lobby today. The new Persian rugs were a marked improvement over the old ones – the color scheme really brought out the angularity of the leather wingback chairs, and the restored fainting couches gave the whole space a classical spark. Even the marble and brass looked smoother and livelier. _Yes, indeed_, he thought. _This grand dame is going to be the toast of London this year, that's certain_. But even swept up in his reverie, when the phone rang, he picked up without waiting for a second alarm. "Front desk," he said, in his best prim and professional manner.

"Sir?" the male voice on the other end said. "I'm in room ten-oh-nine. And something's going on in the room next to me. Sounds dreadful."

The concierge frowned. "Loud music, sir, or – "

"Not music. It's this - well, I can't describe it except to say it's a God-awful racket," the voice continued. "Sounds like somebody's getting killed in there." Then, in a more hushed tone, he added, "The wife thinks that it could be…newlyweds. If it's a couple, they need to be more discreet. I've got my little ones with me and – "

"Say no more. I'll be up personally," the concierge said.

The voice sounded relieved. "Thank you. Room ten-oh-seven." Then, he said, "Maybe send security, too. Just in case."

"Of course, sir," the concierge said. He found the miniature two-way radio, parked conveniently next to the phone, and said into it, "Mr. Parker, could you come to the front desk, please?"

* * *

CIA HEADQUARTERS  
LOS ANGELES OFFICE 

Al's office was full when he returned. And while the mystery Christmas lay (_Miss Steinman_, he corrected himself) was there, so were two of her office mates – both gawky men wearing ill-fitting suits, one rather lanky, one rather not.

"Is there a party in here that I wasn't notified about?" Al asked, trying to be funny. Two half-titters told him that all attempts would be lost. Al shook his head. "Okay, then. What's up?"

"I'm sorry, Al – I mean, Agent Maxwell – but – " the woman said, blushing a bit.

"Come on, Sarah, I wanted to say it," the heavier man said.

"Say – what?" Al asked.

"Agent Maxwell," the heavier man said, taking a deep breath...

…and the lanky man jumped the gun, adding in a stereotypical nasal tone, "We found something." This earned him a punch in the shoulder from the stocky analyst.

"To be more correct, several somethings," Sarah said.

"That was quick," Al marvelled.

"Well, we are professional analysts," she replied, with a smile that was just for him.

Al had to admit to himself that he liked that smile a lot. "Show me what you've got," he said.

* * *

"Is your dad mad at you?" Karen asked, drenching another waffle in blueberry sauce. 

The question caught Sydney off-guard, just as she was finishing her milk. She pretended to brush it off. "No," Sydney said, not quite sure if she believed it. "I told you he's pretty serious."

"Yeah, but, there's serious, and then there's, y' know, **serious**." Karen began building a whipped cream mountain. "I mean, my dad at least smiles at my friends and me, even when he's PO'd that I invited people over."

Sydney sniffed a bit, and nodded, looking at the crumbs and sticky remnants of maple syrup still on her plate. "He smiles. Just not very much." She picked up her dish and carried it to the sink.

Karen finished the peak, and picked up her fork. "I mean, I'm not bad-mouthing him or anything," she said as Sydney returned to the table. "It's just, like, this is the first time I ever actually saw your dad and you in the same room, and not in a picture or anything, and it was, like, chilly."

Sydney's eyes were downcast. "He and I – we're not very close," she said softly. "He has work, and that's all the time, so I barely see him. I had a few different nannies when I was younger – after my mom – you know – and now, I don't need a lot of adult supervision…." Her voice began to trail away.

"I'm sorry," Karen said. "I didn't mean to – "

Sydney looked up again. "It's okay. You didn't mean anything by it." She offered her friend a sad smile, even though she didn't feel like doing it.

* * *

When Jack reached his bedroom, Irina was already there, sitting on the bed in that cream-colored satin nightgown she wore a night before she died, brushing her hair with those long strokes of hers. "You could have asked her about San Francisco, you know," she said. 

"I will. I just need to clear my head," Jack replied, unbuttoning his dress shirt.

"How long will that take? You saw the look on her face. She missed you, and you didn't appear to miss her."

"I'm not talking to you, Irina," Jack groaned.

She stuck out her lower lip in her best mock-pouty expression. "Oh, come on, Jack. She's our daughter."

Jack snorted. "She is not _our_ daughter. She is _my_ daughter. You were simply a vessel for her gestation."

The expression faded. "Now that's cruel. I never gave you enough credit for your abilities in that department."

"Well, maybe you would now, if you weren't rotting somewhere." He sat down on the bed and began to untie his shoes.

Irina shook her head. "Now you're just being disgusting. And speaking of disgusting, who was that adorable girl from last night?" The look on her face was pure malice.

* * *

Sydney and Karen had sat in silence for a few moments, except for the sound of Karen's fork scraping her emptying plate. Then she looked squarely into her friend's eyes, an _a-ha _expression on her face. "I know what your dad needs," she said, popping another bite into her mouth. "A girlfriend." 

Sydney laughed. "Karen…."

"He's not that old, Syd," she replied. "And he's even kinda cute," she added, with a tiny smirk.

"Ewwww!" Sydney said, wincing. "That's my dad you're talking about!"

"So? He _is_, kinda. Besides, I'm not saying I'd wanna be his girlfriend," Karen said, with an even broader grin breaking across her face. "Not yet, anyway."

Sydney grinned too, as she picked up the whipped cream can, and began to shake it.

"You wouldn't dare," Karen said, leaping away from her chair.

Sydney pointed the nozzle at her friend, fingertip at the ready. "I wouldn't?" Her grin was holding. "Call my dad cute again. I dare you."

* * *

Outside room 1007, there was more activity than usual. People were poking their heads into the hall, watching as the pinched concierge, flanked by two larger men, repeatedly knocked on the door. "Mr. Chase?" he had said more than once, "This is Mr. Halliwell, the hotel concierge. Could you open the door please?" 

As had been the case the six or seven times before, there was no reply.

"Mr. Halliwell," said one of the larger men, a hulking bald fellow with a nametag that read **PARKER**, said to the smaller man, "I think we need to go in. Your passkey, please."

Halliwell shook his head. "I'm not allowed to give it out," he replied. "I'll unlock the door, then you can go in."

Parker sighed. "Very good, sir."

Halliwell slid the key into the deadbolt, and turned it. The lock snapped open, and he took a pair of steps back.

Parker raised his voice to a half-shout, and said, "Mr. Chase, this is hotel security. We're coming in." He nodded at his partner, who turned the knob, and swung the door open.

It took no time for the trio to discover why the guest in 1007 hadn't answered the door.

Or for Halliwell to faint.

Parker's partner rushed toward the warped body on the floor, covering his mouth as he arrived. He looked back and shook his head, and Parker raised the two-way radio to his lips. "Get me the police," he said. "Now."

* * *

Jack frowned at his imagined wife, then went back to his shoes. "What girl?" he asked. 

This made her smirk. "You remember, the one who took care of you in the shower this morning? What was her name again?"

"I don't know," Jack replied.

Irina pointed toward the bathroom door where the girl was now standing, drying the beads of water on her tanned body with a terrycloth towel, but keeping her sparkling blue eyes on his. "She was very young. And very attractive," Irina said. "How did you manage?"

"I don't remember," Jack said, unable to take his eyes off his last conquest. "Getting old."

"Yes, you are. Too old for girls. You need a woman." At that, Irina appeared in the younger woman's place, wrapping the towel around her body.

"A woman? Like you?"

"Not necessarily," Irina said, slinking toward him. "But definitely someone who you won't just forget."

"I am sick and tired of this discussion," Jack said, lying down. "Why won't you just go away?"

Irina swung a leg over him and straddled his hips. "You won't let me go away. Down deep, you still want me." She lifted his undershirt and exposed his stomach. "You still feel me next to you at night. You dream about the things we did together." Her hands smoothed his skin, then loosened his belt. "You can't fight me, Jack," she said, and it was true. He couldn't move to push her away. Somehow he'd lost control of his limbs – they were hers now. She opened his trousers and exposed more of his flesh to the air. And then, as she rolled her pelvis slowly over his, she said, "You remember and you fantasize. About my body and your body and how we responded to each other." She stripped off the towel and tossed it aside. And he was helplessly lost in her sumptuous beauty once more.

His mind was a contradictory swirl: he ached to caress her, to explore her body like he had done so many times before, then take her – or let her take him – just as much as he wanted to push her away. She lay on top of him, her breasts pressing against his torso, lips tantalizingly close to his. She smirked, catlike. "The girl from last night," she purred, "so young and beautiful. But you had her, and now you don't want her anymore, so – poof! – she's out of your mind. But me - a woman you say you hate, by the way - you still want. And here I am." She sat up once more and laughed, good and hearty, her hands finding their own way.

Jack's mind was resistant, but weakening. Her touch was still…_delicious_…

…_and he saw the gleaming straight razor in her other hand…_

…_and she was still laughing…_

…_and she was still stroking him…_

…_**then she sliced open his ribcage**…_

"No!" he cried, bolting upright, hand over his heart. Irina was not on him now. She was standing at the door, clad in a Soviet military uniform, like the one he'd seen her wearing in a faded surveillance photo. He was dressed again, but still aroused. They stared at each other for a moment, and then Jack had to speak. "Lusting for you and wanting to tear you apart, those are two different things," he said, trying to catch his breath.

"No, Jack. They're one and the same," she said, and gave him a sly wink.

Jack lay back down, trying to slow his pounding pulse, and as he breathed, he settled deeper into his pillow, and drifted off.

* * *

Al couldn't believe he was pulling up in front of Jack's house again. He'd been there maybe three times in the last two years, and now he was showing up twice in one day. _Jack's probably going to punt my ass into the neighbor's bushes_, he thought, as his car phone buzzed. "Al Maxwell," he said. 

"Agent Maxwell?" the wheezy voice asked.

Al recognized it – it belonged to the lanky analyst, whose name was slipping away from Al at that very moment. "That's me," he replied.

"Kendrick's looking for you," the voice said, in a hushed tone.

"Is he pissed?" Al asked, looking at his reflection in the rearview mirror.

"The little vein in his forehead looks like it's about to – oh, hello, sir – "

"Maxwell!" Kendrick's voice bellowed through the pops and crackles. It had sounded like he'd torn the receiver from the other man's ear. "Where the hell are you?"

"On my way to a late lunch," Al said.

"At Jack Bristow's house?"

_Shit_, Al thought. _Damn phone tracers._ "Sure," he said. "The man knows how to make a tuna melt. I'll have him put one together for you, too."

"Goddammit, Maxwell, you know intra-office communications policy regarding ongoing – "

"Yeah, I glanced at it before I left," Al said, noticing a rusting Chevy Nova parking behind him. "I couldn't wait for your approval. Jack needs to be kept up to speed on this. And I can't wait for him to return from his sick days – or whatever they're being called – or just give him the details over the phone. When we're working together, we need to be in the same damn room."

Kendrick started to say something about insubordination and the infallibility of CIA policy and something else, too, but Al wasn't listening, because he noticed that a very attractive woman – who was dressed as a very plain one – was getting out of the Nova and walking toward the house. When she was gone from the mirror, Al remembered Kendrick.

"…and when you get back here, we are going to discuss your attitude, am I clear?" Kendrick finished saying.

"Crystal clear, sir," Al replied. Then he was out the door, and behind the woman, who was going exactly the same direction he was.

* * *

A knock stirred Jack from his slumber. "Dad?" Sydney asked from behind the door. 

Jack sat up. He could still feel that odd contradictory arousal. God forbid that he was also talking in his sleep. "What is it?" he replied.

"Someone from your work is here for you. Mr. Maxwell. He said it's urgent."

Jack's expression was instantly one of bewilderment. He looked at his alarm clock. 2:35. He wondered, _is it tomorrow already?_ "Did Karen's mother pick her up?" he asked.

"Not yet. She just got here. And Karen wanted to borrow a couple of tapes, so she's in my room right now." A hesitation, then, softer, "Are you mad at me? About Karen, or the waffles, or just - in general?"

Jack kept his sigh inaudible. Why should the apparition be right more often than he was? "No. I'm not mad at you. Just jet-lagged." He stood up and began to button his shirt again. "Tell Mr. Maxwell I'll be down in a moment."

* * *

The sound of sirens was growing louder outside. They had left the hotel room door open wide, and watched the cold wind blow over the bloated and gored corpse. Halliwell was sitting cross-legged on the hallway carpet, staring into the room, unblinking, but unseeing. Parker was right next to his boss, and noticed that his partner was returning with a cup of coffee. "Who called you, Mr. Halliwell?" Parker asked, gesturing for the cup. He handed it to the shaking man. 

Halliwell spoke slowly. "A guest next door, in ten-oh-nine."

Parker pointed to the door. "There?"

"He was saying that the noise was disturbing his wife and children…oh, God…what if – what if whomever did this…_oh, God_ - " Halliwell's words vanished in anguish.

"Sir, just relax here for a moment," Parker said. Then he rose and knocked on the door to room 1009. There was no answer. He knocked again, more forcefully. Said, "Sir, this is security. Could you open the door, please?" Still nothing.

"_Ohgodohgodohgod_," Halliwell whispered.

"Eddie!" Parker barked to his partner. "Grab the passkey!"

Eddie took the key from the deadbolt in 1007, and inserted it into 1009's. Turned it until the lock snapped open.

Parker put his hand on the brass knob. "Sir, this is security. We're coming in," he said.

Then he pushed open the door.

* * *

By the time Jack arrived at the foyer, there was another visitor in the house. And she was an actual woman – rounder and softer than most of the females he'd been around for some time, with bronze skin that actually glowed, and deep brown eyes. She was dressed casually – just a gray sweatshirt and blue jeans – and when she noticed him, she offered a small, real smile. That was enough to make Jack not notice that Al was also in the room, standing right next to her, putting his most nervous junior executive face forward, as he was supposed to. 

Before Jack had a chance to say anything, Al stepped up to him. "Sorry to show up unannounced," Al said, indicating his briefcase, "but I forgot to have you sign those papers. Can we head to your study and get these squared away? If the Sakamoto concern doesn't see them by next week – "

"Of course, Al," Jack said. "Right this way." He didn't move, though.

Sydney noticed her father's paralysis. "Oh, Dad, this is Karen's mom. Pilar Jimenez, this is my dad, Jack Bristow," she said.

Jack put his hand out, and she accepted it, for a moment. As she released his hand, she motioned for her daughter to join her. "I am sorry I was late, Mr. Bristow," she said. "My shift ended late, then I missed my bus. If it was any trouble…"

"Don't worry about it, Mrs. Jimenez," Jack said. He zeroed in on her accent. Texan, via Mexico, via Spain.

"Miss," she said firmly.

"Miss Jimenez," he corrected. .

"Jack," Al said, desperation growing in his voice. "Sakamoto?"

"Right," Jack replied. "Nice to meet you, Miss Jimenez," he said to the woman, then gestured for Al to follow him down a hallway. Then he stopped and turned toward the foyer again.

Sydney was opening the door to show the others out, and there he saw Irina, standing on the front step, eyes behind sunglasses, and smiling her most venomous smile. Jack turned away.

* * *

"Are you sure?" Steinmann asked, her face white. "Okay, thank you. Someone will be in touch shortly." As she hung up the receiver, she felt a rush of terror that forced her out of her seat. 

The stocky analyst looked over at her. "What is it, Sarah?"

Her eyes were wide. "I need to find Kendrick," she said, pacing.

"Why?"

"We just got a report from a London operative. MI-5 has dispatched half a dozen of their people to the Windsor Hotel, and they're not saying why."

The man nodded. "Could be just training, or something else that's none of our business."

Steinmann shook her head. "Someone in the hotel called home. Since it happened about thirty minutes after the MI-5 development, our man trapped the call. And that someone told whoever it was that picked up that there is a dead man in room ten-oh-seven. And – I'm quoting here – 'the man looked like someone set a grenade off inside him.'" She gave her office mate a kind of pleading look.

The stocky analyst shivered, then said, "Forget Kendrick. You know who to call." Then he picked up his phone, dialed a twelve-digit string of numbers, and handed the phone to Steinman, as the receiver whined and popped and buzzed.

* * *

As they entered the study, Al shot a teasing grin at Jack. "If I knew you were having chicks delivered now, I would have called first," he said, feigning an elbow poke at Jack's ribs. 

"Funny," Jack groaned. "She's Sydney's friend's mother."

"I gathered that," Al said. He smiled impishly. "Cute, though. And a nice name, too. '_Pilar Jimenez_.'" He gave the name a little Castilian twist. "Intriguing, no?"

Jack bit his tongue. "Why didn't you call?"

"Because I've actually got something to show you, and it couldn't wait," Al replied.

"Not even five hours after I get sent home, too? Must be big."

Al nodded. "A couple of the analysts aren't paying for their lunches for the next week or so. Oh, and you're pitching in with that, just to let you know."

"Spit it out, Al," Jack said.

"They lucked out," Al replied. "Item one: our source at the LAPD came through. Apparently, somebody did see Donnelly leave the ballroom last night. And not alone."

"Who?" Jack asked.

"A guy who was playing in the band at the banquet. He was loading up some instruments when he noticed our DOA leaving the hall with what he said was, quote, 'a much younger guy,' unquote. Basic description: white male, twenty-five to thirty years old, five-ten to six feet, medium build, sandy hair, in a tuxedo."

"A decent description," Jack said, then added, "Of seventy percent of the attendees."

"And that's where the second lucky analyst shows up." Al popped the locks on his briefcase, and produced a VHS cassette from inside. "Item two: videotape from a security camera in the corridor outside Grace Donnelly's hotel room."

"How'd you get that out of the building?" Jack asked, indicating an oak cabinet across the room.

"You don't want to know," Al said, as he walked over to the polished furnishing. He tugged on the brass door handle and found Jack's combination TV/VCR behind.

"You're probably right," Jack replied. "Hey, what about the name tag?"

"Nothing yet," Al said. "The tag's genuine, according to the organizers of the conference, and whoever this 'Ryan Corcoran' was, his paperwork was in order, and his check cleared. Problem is, the tags were handled by every Tom, Dick, and Harry in the organizers' office before the conference even started, so – "

" – so the prints were virtually unsalvageable," Jack said.

Al nodded. "That's pretty much it. Barring a miracle, they aren't counting on finding anything usable. Unlike this," Al said, as he slipped the tape into its slot, and began searching for the power button. "I haven't seen the tape myself, but I was told that the video's not the best," he apologized. "The tape's obviously been used over and over, so the static lines are fairly heavy. Also, our new pal here, he never really faces the camera for more than a second or two. But the techies say they can make something of it. We'll have more definitive images to work with in a day or two, at least they hope so."

As the tape began to run, Al's phone rang. He put the receiver to his ear as Jack moved closer to the screen. Soon he saw Grace Donnelly, alive and well. And someone else, just as he had been described. They kissed on-screen as Al was saying into his phone, "This better be good."

Jack watched the couple break apart, and the late Dr. Donnelly say something as she opened her hotel room door. As she did, the man turned, and at that, Jack paused the tape.

Paused it right on the blurred face of her killer. _Gotcha, you son of a bitch_, Jack thought.

Then he noticed that Al had ended his call and was staring at the screen. "What is it?" Jack asked.

Al's eyes were narrowed slits, and his jaw was tight. "I think I might know that guy," he said in a virtual whisper.

Jack frowned. "Him? From where?" he asked.

Al shook his head. "I don't know. But if it is who I think it is, it isn't good." He looked at Jack. "And there's more. That was the office. I'm going to London."

Jack knew the answer, but felt the question leave his lips anyway. "Why?"

"Two guesses," Al sighed. "And you won't need the second one."

**TO BE CONTINUED...  
**


	4. ZERO PLUS THREE

**POISONED**

**ZERO PLUS THREE**

UNITED STATES EMBASSY  
LONDON 

The Marines at the gate had been dispassionately courteous to Al, even after he displayed his credentials. Much like the men who had escorted him from the airport. Most people in their position are that way when the little hand's on the six and the big hand's on the two.

Unfortunately that was the time that Al's watch was on – here it was ten-thirty in the morning.

Al was greeted at the foyer by a weighty bald man who wore his glasses low on his bulbous nose. "Sorry I couldn't greet you at the airport. I trust your flight was all right."

"There was some bad weather to fly around," Al explained, looking about, trying to keep his eyes open. It was a surprisingly cold interior design – sparsely furnished, with marble columns and the occasional American flag. Perhaps if he weren't so exhausted he'd appreciate it more. "Plus the peanuts were stale, and all they had to read were leftover Hare Krishna pamphlets," he added.

"First time in the London Embassy?" the man asked.

"First time in London," Al replied. "So where is he?"

The man's shoulders slumped. "The attache? He's been quite ill the past few days. The doctor ordered bed rest," he stammered. Sensing Al's impatience, he quickly added, "But, per his instructions, as soon as you arrived, I sent a Marine to retrieve him. He shouldn't be more than a few minutes. If you would follow me, Mr. Maxwell, we have a private room ready for your meeting."

Al nodded, and began to follow the somewhat lumbering fellow into the private room, which was really the receiving room of a receiving room, he discovered. A few less-than-cushy chairs, one uncomfortable looking loveseat, and a well-thumbed copy of Time magazine on a coffee table. This isn't to say the furnishings weren't tasteful – or inexpensive, either. It just seemed to Al that they could've sprung for something more…_upholstered_. The man looked over at Al. "I am sorry again for the inconvenience," he said. "Would you like some coffee? Something to eat, perhaps?"

Al's stomach rumbled. He hadn't even thought about food until now, and remembered that he hadn't eaten in quite a while. It also might help him stay awake. "Yes, black coffee, and plenty of it," Al said. "And maybe a sandwich, Mister…" he said, fishing for a name from his greeter.

"Gardner," the man replied. "I'll check the kitchen, see what's available. If you don't mind waiting here, of course," he said, just as he disappeared from the room.

Al did mind. He hated waiting. Especially after an endless, exhausting flight. And he minded even more that he had to take that endless flight to meet with

_"Sloane?" Al had asked Jack hours before. "You want me to meet with Sloane?"_

_"Al, you've got to hear me out," Jack replied._

_"And you need a CAT scan," Al shot back._

_"I know you don't like him." Jack's voice was conciliatory._

_"I also don't trust him. That's a potent combination." Al started pacing the floor._

_"And you think I trust him?"_

_"You don't?" Al was incredulous. "So why him?"_

_Jack sighed. "He's the only man I can think of who knows people within the system…"_

_"For cryin' out loud, Jack," Al said, knowing that he had to argue if he wanted a chance to pull Jack away from this suggestion. "I know people. You know people. We can go with someone else."_

_Jack's reply was quiet, and persuasive. "Not with his connections, and not nearly as fast. He has highly placed MI-5 and MI-6 informants, plus Scotland Yard and Interpol. If there's anything to find there, he's the best chance we've got."_

_Al knew he was losing the fight, but tried to hang on. "Jack, the man's bpersona non grata/b here. That's why Langley shipped him to London, remember? Gave him that phony-baloney attache post just to keep an eye on him."_

_"I'm aware of that."_

_"There's enough stink on that guy to…well, pick your own metaphor."_

_"And he'll help us."_

_"Why?" Al asked. "Why would he even consider giving us help on this?"_

_"Because," Jack said, "he still thinks I'm his best friend."_

"Mr. Maxwell," a familiar voice was saying as Jack's words still rung in Al's ears. He looked over at the door and noticed the short, trim figure in a jogging suit, with the close-cropped hair and the sprouts of a salt-and-pepper beard. "It's been some time, hasn't it?" he asked brightly.

"About a year, Mr. Sloane," Al replied, not brightly at all.

"You make it sound so grim," Sloane said. "I gather you weren't looking forward to visiting me."

Al tried not to sneer. "Let's just say I'm not here to share your air."

Sloane chuckled at that. "You are still a quick one with the barbs."

Al shook his head. "Can we cut the shit? I've got a plane to catch."

"Of course, Mr. Maxwell," Sloane said, with his infamous inscrutable smile. "Follow me."

* * *

THE BRISTOW RESIDENCE  
LOS ANGELES 

Sydney woke with a start. She could have sworn that someone had been stroking her forehead. But her door was still closed, and as her eyes adjusted to the light, it was clear that no one was there.

Her mouth was sticky and dry. She slipped from underneath her bedcovers and made her way out of her room. The hallway leading to the stairs seemed longer tonight. She passed her father's bedroom, and as she was creeping by, she noticed that his room was deathly quiet.

She reached for the doorknob and turned it slowly, hearing it rattle just a bit. Then she pushed lightly on the door, and peeked her head in.

His bed was empty. And still made.

Sydney's ears began to hurt from the quiet.

* * *

SEASIDE COURT APARTMENTS  
LOS ANGELES 

Jack was awake again. He felt the soft curves and peaks pressed against his bare back, noticed the arm draped lazily over him, listened to her breaths. He looked at the bedside clock again. Three-fifteen. Al was likely in London by now, meeting with Arvin, even though that was something he hadn't wanted to do. From Jack's perspective, he understood Al's reasoning – even agreed, maybe – but the fact remained that Arvin Sloane, even with his deceitful nature, had the connections they needed to exploit.

But time was of the essence here. That's why Al had ultimately agreed with him.

"No, Jack," Irina said from across the room. "He agreed to do it because he saw you wouldn't be denied"

Jack snorted at that, and was about to respond when he felt a hand stroking his chest.

"I can't believe you called me," the blonde said, her voice muffled a bit.

"You said that if I enjoyed the hospitality, I could come back," Jack replied, taking her hand in his. Kissing it.

"Speaking of denial," Irina muttered. "Look at you."

"And bringing me Chinese food at eleven at night. Downright noble," she said, pressing her lips against his neck. "You're lucky I was feeling peckish."

He rolled over onto his back, just to get Irina out of his eye-line. The younger woman's eyes were liquid blue, and had a glow in them, even in the dark. "And now how do you feel?" he asked.

She gave him a sexy smirk, and crawled on top of him, straddling his stomach. He reached up to touch her, and she intercepted his hand. "Well, it has been two hours," she said, enveloping one of his fingers with her warm, wet mouth.

"Wow, Jack, she's clever," Irina groaned. She stood up and walked over to the bedside. "You must introduce her to Sydney. Since they're so close in age, I'm sure they'll be fast friends."

Jack held his gaze on the blonde. "Then what should we do?"

A sexier smirk was her reply, as she shifted her weight onto his hips.

Irina appeared over the blonde's shoulder. "Don't do this to me, Jack."

She rolled her pelvis against his. It felt good to Jack - it always did - but not at all like with Irina. That woman could unleash him with just a word. He wondered if it would work with someone else. "Say my name," he said, feeling a tingle of electricity low in his belly.

"Don't you dare, Jack. Don't you fuck her the way you used to fuck me," Irina growled.

"Jack," she whispered, positioning herself on him.

"Slow," Jack said playfully. "Say it ssllloooww."

Irina's face twisted even further. "You vicious fucker."

She giggled. "Jaaaack." And then slowly she began to rock her hips.

A flush of heat poured over his body, and the wave caused him to close his eyes. She was so…_so…_

**_…cold…_**

…and as he opened his eyes, he saw Grace Donnelly. Ashen, bruised flesh on her skeleton. A bursting-apart belly. And blackness flowing from her maw. Yet she lived, astride him. Not in the throes of ecstasy, though. Instead, a grim parody: the violent spasms of death. He could hear her teeth cracking as her jaw clenched. Grace's hands brushed his arms, but didn't grip. Her touch was not a lover's, but someone who was desperately clutching for something to hold on to.

He began to see Grace's abdomen swelling and splitting, and seeing her eyes roll over and slowly blacken, and as he did, he became aware of laughter – peals and peals of raucous, derisive laughter.

_In the direction of the laughter, there was Irina…_

_…and the light in the room grew brighter and brighter…_

_…and her laughter was disappearing behind a rhythmic pounding…_

_…and the walls of the apartment began to dissipate as did Grace and the bed and everything…_

_…and Jack realized that he was_

* * *

SOMEWHERE ON THE 405 

"Sir?" a voice from outside the car was asking. A fist knocked on the window. "Sir? Are you all right?"

Jack turned his eyes to the window. A highway patrolman was blocking the just-risen sun. Jack cleared his throat and rolled down the window. "Yes. Yes, sir."

"We had a call about someone asleep in their car. You know that's not allowed."

Jack's memory came tumbling back. He had called the blonde about going to see her, after about half a bottle of Scotch. Her phone was busy, so for some reason, he decided to see if he could find her apartment – which, of course, he'd only been to the one time. He smelled the Chinese food that was in cartons next to him, and fought a wave of nausea. The boxes said **_DYNASTY PALACE_** on them, and the nausea was replaced by embarrassment from last night's dinner. _Real "Father of the Year" material, you are_, he scolded himself. "I'm sorry," Jack said. "I was out late last night, and I pulled over to rest my eyes…"

"License and registration, please," the uniformed officer said.

As Jack was fumbling with his wallet, and handing it to the patrolman, his pager went off. Jack felt each electronic tone stick a needle into his brain, but he set his expression in stone. He held his palms up, and looked at the younger man, whose hand shot to his hip. "It's in my breast pocket," Jack said. "I'll take it out slowly."

The man nodded his approval, and Jack withdrew the pager. **911**, it said.

He looked over at the cop, who was staring at his ID. "Is something happening?" the patrolman asked.

_CIA credentials are a nice thing to have sometimes, _Jack mused. "I need to get to a phone," he said.

The patrolman nodded. "Use mine."

* * *

MCDONALD'S  
LONDON 

Al shot Sloane a puzzled glance as the embassy car stopped in front of the window with the Golden Arches painted across it. "If you don't mind, I think I'll be Super-Sizing it today," Al said sourly. "Unless, of course, that'll put a strain on your expense account."

Sloane laughed. "Not at all. I thought that you might enjoy something American. British food is something of an acquired taste," he said, climbing out of the car.

Al shook his head and followed, slamming the car door behind him. "Seeing as I'm not here for the sights, you could have at least taken me to Burger King," he said with a grimace. "Would've made for a better story for the folks back home, having lunch with royalty and all."

"No," Sloane said. "The story you're going to get in here is far, far better." He pushed open the swinging door, and held it for Al.

_Pearls before swine_, Al thought.

As he made his way in, and the warm, heavy scents of frying oil and greasy meat overcame his nostrils, he noticed that Sloane had slipped past him and was gesturing to a booth where two men of widely varied type were seated. The small, skinny man in the tailored suit looked almost ill, and certainly ill at-ease, pressed against the back of the booth, while the bigger man in the almost matching jacket-and-tie seemed rather comfortable.

"Al Maxwell, meet Glen Halliwell, head concierge of the Windsor Hotel, and Jeff Parker, the daytime Security Chief," Sloane said, sitting down. "Gentlemen, this is Al Maxwell. He's here to help me."

Al narrowed his eyes at Sloane, who gave him that inscrutable smile once more.

* * *

Sydney didn't feel well today. She put her hand on her queasy stomach. Maybe it was last night's dinner. The Chinese food wasn't as good as usual – it was even a little greasy. Maybe that was why her dad just picked at his plate. 

Maybe that's why she hadn't seen him since then.

_"It doesn't taste right, does it?" she had asked, sniffing at one of the carry-out boxes. "I knew I shouldn't have ordered from Dynasty Palace. They always get it wrong."_

_"No, it's fine, Sydney," Jack replied. "It's just been one of those days again."_

_"Those contracts?" she asked._

_"That's part of it." Jack had put his chopsticks down and looked into his daughter's eyes. "The vice-president of international sales, he called me in today. Told me that he had a project for me, and that I was the only one he could trust to do it right."_

_Sydney offered her dad a smile. "That's good, isn't it?"_

_Jack nodded. "I thought so. But, as it turns out, there's a – personal – complication, just between the two of us."_

_"You don't like each other?"_

_Jack smiled a little himself. "I'll put it like this: in a boardroom, we get along famously," he said._

_Sydney laughed. "Yeah, just like me and this other girl. She was on the trip with me, and she's really smart, but – like you say – there's a personal thing."_

_Jack sighed. "That's how the world works, I suppose."_

_They went back to eating in silence for a moment, then Sydney looked at her father again. "I wish Karen could be here. To see you like this."_

_"Like what?"_

_"She thought you were kinda – chilly." Sydney knew that she'd stepped wrong, and tried to avoid wincing._

_Jack had looked up at her. His face was blank. "Chilly. And this concerns her?"_

_Sydney tried to dig her way out of the conversation. "Well, she said she thought you needed a girlfriend," she wheedled._

_Jack laid his chopsticks across his plate. "And what did you say? When she called me chilly."_

_Sydney frowned. "I said that we aren't as close as we used to be."_

_Jack nodded wordlessly at his daughter. Then he picked up his plate and carried it to the sink in silence. "Please inform Karen that I apologize for not being more outgoing towards her," he said, without turning around. Then he headed for his study. "I have work to catch up on," he had muttered._

And that was that. She hadn't bothered him all night. _But would he have even been around to bother_, she wondered.

It was strange. She still wasn't sure what his reaction had been to Karen's words: anger, sadness, disappointment. He was so good at being a serious professional man, even his moods were riddles most of the time. When he had smiled, and let her in on his life, the serious Jack Bristow was gone. In his place, the father she had flashes of memory about: the one who made funny faces when she was sick, and laughed at silly jokes, and led the sing-along on one car trip or another.

She found herself staring out the front window of the house they lived in, but didn't seem to share. And she wondered where he was right then.

* * *

Jack was in the back seat of a CHP cruiser, door open just a bit, clutching a bag phone on his lap. "When did you get this?" he asked, his attention on the young officer outside. 

"About two hours ago," the voice he recognized as Steinman's replied. "A Japanese chemist named Hiro Rikku was found with two bullets in his head – and about a dozen more in the rest of him – outside a house in Kyoto. Cops there are saying he was trying to pass off some faked designer drugs to the Yakuza, and they popped him before the police could."

"Shot to death? That's not our boy's MO."

"Yeah, but here's the thing. This chemist, at one time, worked with Grace Donnelly."

Jack's eyes narrowed. "Is that confirmed?"

"Apparently, he had a dossier about six inches thick with the Japanese authorities. One of our inside people found Donnelly's name on the most recent surveillance transcripts."

"How recent?"

"Two weeks."

Jack glanced out the window at the cars whizzing by again. "In what context?"

"Just in passing, like she was a mutual colleague."

"Colleague? That doesn't make any sense," Jack said. "Grace Donnelly's records are spotless. No indication of any relationship like this one."

"I know, sir. But these records are verified by three independent sources."

"Do we have someone going to Kyoto?" Jack asked.

"Already on it," Steinman replied. "A half-dozen agents were dispatched to comb through this guy's office and his apartment. If there's something to find, they'll find it."

"Okay," Jack said. "Bring Kendrick up to speed – "

"I already am, Jack," Kendrick said, like the words were stale.

It was a surprise to hear the man's voice. Had he been listening the whole time? "Good," Jack said, with as much enthusiasm as he could pretend to muster.

"Where are you calling from?" Kendrick asked. "The phone trace shows you on the 405."

"I'm in a police car," Jack said. "Engine trouble."

"You haven't heard from Maxwell, have you?" His voice was cold, distant.

"No, not yet," Jack said.

"Make sure he checks in with us if he makes contact with you first, okay?" Kendrick asked.

"Sure," Jack replied.

"Talk to you later, Jack," Kendrick said. And with that he was gone.

Jack leaned out of the car again. "I need your help, patrolman," he said.

"With what?"

"I need you to drive me to a payphone," Jack said, handing the bag to the other man.

The young officer looked confused. "Can't you use the cell – "

"Not for this call," Jack replied.

* * *

HEATHROW AIRPORT  
LONDON 

Al's suit was a mess now – he wished he'd thought to bring a change of clothes. He studied his appearance in a dark glass door. His suit was scuffed and scraped, with patches of concrete dust down his arms, a popped shoulder seam, and a rip in the knee of the trousers. His face and hands weren't much better. He had cuts and abrasions on his knuckles that were crusty with drying blood, and one side of his jaw was beginning to purple. But he was walking just fine, and a newspaper found on a bench in the terminal would cover the injury from most casual observers.

Whenever he made eye contact, he said, "Tripped on the stairs in the parking garage," then he'd add, "Looks a lot worse than it is." And most everyone nodded and moved on. There were a couple of security guards that eyed him suspiciously for a moment, but then he gave them his best weary traveler expression, and they let him pass.

He was kicking himself, though. He couldn't believe he'd missed so many of the signs. Recognizing the face on the videotape should have been his first warning. And now, with the parking garage thing, he had confirmation. This was a whole new shitstorm of trouble. And not just for him, either.

The isolated phone booth Al needed to use was at the end of a long terminal. He grimaced at that discovery. His ribs were sore enough; he didn't need to do a lot of heavy breathing. He decided to walk as quickly as he could without having to feel the whine of his ribcage.

* * *

SUN-RAY MOTOR HOTEL  
LOS ANGELES 

The man with the dark beard and mustache in room 17 woke to a ringing phone. He snatched it up, and growled a sleepy, "Yeah," into it.

He listened for a moment. "I was up late," he said, scratching his head. "Tight little redhead. She took off around three."

He listened again, looking at the closed curtains that couldn't quite hold the sunlight back. "Real fuckin' funny," he said. "So what do you need?"

He reached for a cigarette from the pack on night table, and then his antique silver lighter. "Nope. Not gonna happen for two grand." He took a drag, then snorted smoke. "Four. Half of it in our usual place."

He seemed placated. "I'll check around seven. No dough, no show, you know."

A wide grin. "Company policy. Right."

He hung up the phone, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He took his first deep breath of the day, cigarette still between his lips, and opened the night table drawer. There he found his .40-caliber pistol and a fresh box of shells, and carried them into the bathroom with him.

"Time to get ready for work," he said.

**TO BE CONTINUED…**


	5. ZERO PLUS FOUR

**ALIAS**

**Poisoned**

**ZERO PLUS FOUR**

HEATHROW AIRPORT

LONDON

_Sloane was quiet now. Staring out the window of the embassy car. Staring at the fluorescence that illuminated the nearly empty parking structure._

_Al was silent as well. His hands were cut and bloody, and he still gripped a now-empty Walther PPK. He was staring at Sloane. "What's your angle?" he asked. "What do you get?"_

_Sloane didn't say a word. He turned to Al, locked eyes with him for a moment, then turned away again._

_"Sorry, I didn't catch what you were trying tell me via brainwaves – or whatever the hell that was," Al said._

_Finally, Sloane spoke. "Don't miss your flight, Mr. Maxwell," he said, in a soft, still tone._

_Al spat back, "I've already missed it. Thanks to that little detour." _

_"There's a ticket waiting for you at the British Airways desk," Sloane said, his voice almost gentle. "Bought and paid for. Flight leaves in two hours."_

_"Great," Al groaned. "I get to hang around a major international airport terminal looking like I just got hit by a bus. That won't draw any attention."_

_"Then be smart," Sloane said. "Or as smart as you think you are." He opened a side panel on the door, and gestured at the pistol. "Put that in here. I'll dispose of it. Along with the contents of the trunk."_

_Al looked down at the weapon. His knuckles were white around the grip. "You want something from me, right? To keep me in your debt, so I can be beneficial to you?"_

_Sloane shook his head. "You've been through a traumatic event. Killing a man is never easy, no matter how the movies make it seem, right?"_

_Al nodded. He didn't want to, but he had to admit that Sloane wasn't wrong._

_"I must admit, I didn't think you had it in you," Sloane said. "I'm surprised you're still alive."_

_"So am I," Al replied. He dropped the pistol into the space behind the panel, and Sloane closed it again._

_"Good," the older man said, locking the panel in place. "Means you're actually learning something."_

_"Maybe. But I still don't get this philanthropic streak."_

_Sloane shook his head. "I am helping a fellow agent of the CIA, not out of need for indentured servitude, but because he needs the help. The sooner you accept that, the better for the both of us."_

_"So getting me a plane ticket in advance – "_

_Sloane sighed. "I didn't do that, Mr. Maxwell."_

_"Then who did?"_

_Sloane gave him that smile once more, and then unlocked the car door._

Al realized he was staring into the polished metal of the coin box. He blinked a few times to clear his vision, gave quick glances from side to side, then picked up the receiver and dialed. A series of buzzes, then a robotic voice: "**Secure line passcode, please.**"

"Alpha-one-four-whiskey-delta-seven-nine-seven-tango," he said, pronouncing every syllable, but saying them as quickly as possible. He noticed that one of his molars felt loose. He rocked it back and forth with his tongue. _Thank Jesus for the government dental plan_, he thought.

"**Stand by for confirmation.**" A moment passed, followed by two tones. "**Confirmed. Please hold.**"

A ring. Then, "Bristow residence."

_Sydney?_ "It's Al Maxwell. I was calling for your dad. Is he around?"

"He's not home. Sorry."

_Not home? That son of a bitch._ "Don't worry about it," Al said, trying not to sound as angry as he felt. "I just had some questions for him. They can wait," he lied.

"Should I have him call you?"

_Great question._ "I'm at a pay phone right now, so he wouldn't be able to reach me," he said. _Good cover. Now be polite, you're the nervous junior executive talking to the boss's daughter,_ he told himself. "Any idea when he'll be home?"

"No, I don't," she said. Her voice sounded sad, and a little resigned.

He felt an empathetic sigh escape him. "Tell him that I called, would you? And that I'll call him back as soon as I can."

"Sure." She was still gloomy.

"Thank you, Sydney," he said, trying to cheer her a bit. The silence from the other end told him it didn't work. "'Bye," Al finally added, and waited to hear the click from the other end. He stood with a dead receiver in his hand, his jaw muscles working overtime. And beginning to stiffen and ache. _Stupid bastard. An ambush? Yeah. Nice try._

He tapped the hookswitch, and the voice asked for the passcode again. Al felt more dull throbbing in his hands, and couldn't help noticing a bloodied kneecap through the hole in his pants. There was no way he could get on a plane looking like this. So he hung up, and felt for his wallet. There it was, snug in the inside pocket of his jacket. _Time to do some shopping_, he thought.

* * *

SUN-RAY MOTOR HOTEL 

LOS ANGELES

The shower pipes were squealing, and the water was on full-blast. And yet the bearded man was hearing a pounding. He rinsed his long hair, and rolled his head until felt the neck muscles pop. With his left hand, he dialed off the water. With his right, he reached for a dry towel, and felt the flattened cotton cloth being pressed into his hand. He flipped the towel over, taking the other man's hand with it. The wrist popped in his grip, and the other man yelped.

"Dammit, Charlie," a voice grunted. "It's just me, for Christ's sake."

Charlie released his grip and opened the shower curtain. When he saw who had disturbed him, a small smile crossed his face. "Detective Tim Roper? How'd you get in here?"

"Power of the LAPD badge. And fuck you very much for calling me Tim. You know I hate that name," he replied.

Charlie shot the other man a grin. "You're lucky I put my gun back in the night table. I thought a man had a right to shower in peace."

"Later," Roper said. "Right now, you need to get dressed and come with me."

Charlie stepped onto the bath mat, still dripping. He grabbed another towel from the rack and began drying himself. "If you don't mind," he said. "Since we aren't in jail or dating, you might give me some privacy." Roper grasped his wrist and rubbed it as he exited the bathroom, mumbling something under his breath.

Charlie closed the door, and studied his unshaven face in the mirror. "Why are you here?"

"Our guy in London didn't make his scheduled sitrep. Or his contingency call, so the boss said to consider him burned. And now we're on – "

"Loose end patrol," Charlie said, like the words had turned rancid in his mouth. "Shit," he groaned. He leaned his head out the doorway, and noticed the other man pacing nervously, clapping a manila envelope between his palms. "Toss me my pants, would you?" he asked, gesturing to the pile of clothes at the foot of the bed.

* * *

Al buckled the new belt, then turned to look in the mirror. Not bad. The sweatshirt-and-jeans combo he'd selected was comfortable, but not constricting, and he'd be able to take off the sweatshirt during the flight without feeling a rib shift. The jeans were a bit stiff, but not as stiff as his knees were going to be after a few hours on a plane. 

He studied his wounded face. His jaw had finished swelling, but it wasn't too bad. He gingerly pressed the bruise with his fingers. _Yeah, I'll be able to say I fell and have people believe it,_ he thought. _If they don't, they'll think mugged tourist who just wants to be done with it. Either way, there won't be a lot of questions._

He and Sloane had made sure of that.

As he handed some cash to the salesgirl in the airport shop, after she'd eyed his bruisings, he gave her a sad, wistful smile, and she nodded at him, like she understood. She handed him the receipt and he wore the new clothes out of the store. He headed back to the phone bank at the end of the terminal. When he passed a clock, he noted the time; _only forty minutes left in London_, he thought. Just enough time to make some calls.

* * *

THE BRISTOW RESIDENCE 

LOS ANGELES

The cab ride home had been as quick as Jack could have hoped for – less than forty minutes – and when the car pulled up in front of his house, he pushed a fifty dollar bill into the driver's hand, without even realizing it.

It had been over two hours – nearly three, really – since he'd been awakened on the shoulder of the 405. He hadn't been home for several more than that. He'd purposely stayed out of contact with the CIA since the call from the patrolman's phone. Something in Kendrick's voice was just wrong. And since he was sure that he was being tracked, he'd had the patrolman drop him off at a bus station, then he jogged eight blocks in the opposite direction to a coffee shop they passed.

_"British Airways Customer Service, this is Daphne," the honey-voiced operator had said._

_"Hi, Daphne," Jack had replied._

_"Ooh, she sounds pretty," Irina whispered in his ear. "Don't you think so, Jack?"_

_He ignored this. "I'm calling from Los Angeles, and I'm wondering if you can help me." He kept his voice as light and friendly as possible, while trying not to speak too loudly._

_"Let's find out. What's the situation?"_

Her voice was rather nice_, Jack decided_. Empathetic. _He would lean on that. "There's a friend of mine traveling in London – sightseeing and whatnot on fifteen dollars a day – and he needs to be back in the States right away."_

_"Is it an emergency?" Daphne asked helpfully._

_"No, but it is a fairly pressing matter," Jack said, injecting a bit of _gravitas_ by adding, in a grimmer tone, "Family stuff."_

_"Do you know where he is?"_

_Jack spoke a bit quicker. "I've already contacted him, let him know what was going on. Problem is, now he's misplaced his return ticket." He paused for effect, then continued. "What I'm wondering, is if I could buy a ticket over the phone here, in his name, and have it waiting for him at the counter at Heathrow." Then to seal the performance, he added, "I'll pay extra if I have to, but I just need to know if I can do it," with just enough desperation leaking into his voice to make her go against her better instincts, just in case._

_"Always worked with me, didn't it?" Irina whispered._

_It was a long second before Daphne replied, "That won't be a problem, sir. What's the name?"_

_Jack smiled, partially for Daphne, and mostly for Irina. "Maxwell. First name Al."_

Jack was sure he saw Sydney's face in the window next to the foyer, and it pulled him back into the now. He dashed up to the door and fit his key into the lock, hoping to catch her…but no. Maybe he'd just imagined her standing there.

"You tend to do that these days," Irina muttered from right behind him.

Jack tried to ignore that. "Sydney? I'm home," he said, hearing no reply.

He tried again. "Sydney? About last night - I'm sorry. I was out of line." He wandered down the hallway, into the kitchen, through the dining room and the living room. No sign of her. He opened his study door. "Sydney?" he asked to another empty room.

"Jack," Irina said in his ear. "I don't like this one bit." She sounded a bit scared, which was something that chilled Jack's blood.

"Sydney," he said, more forcefully. "Please say something."

He walked back up the hallway and began to climb the stairs.

* * *

Charlie was by the bed now, buttoning his shirt. A cigarette dangled from his lips. Roper was sitting in a chair by the door, tapping the envelope against his leg. "My guy at the crime lab made sure that the sample they retrieved got lost, along with whatever research they'd already done," he said. "It was easy enough. But the CIA still has their sample. The boss is hoping that our insider there will be able to do something about that." 

"Wasn't smart to let them have it, was it?" Charlie asked, turning off the lamp over the night table.

"Hey, I didn't know they were CIA until later."

"You're local law. You can stonewall."

"I've already had this conversation, Charlie," Roper said sourly. "There's nothing I can do about it now."

Charlie nodded, but didn't look up. "Final instructions in there?" he asked.

"Yeah," Roper said. "I haven't looked at 'em yet. Wanted you to see 'em at the same time."

Charlie smirked. "Damn decent of you."

The other man frowned. "This stinks. We were promised six weeks to do this…"

"That's the way these things go," Charlie said. "You'll get used to it."

"Yeah, but having to burn an identity?"

"That's the price. Lay low – do off-continent work for a while. It'll give you time to build another face."

"Easy enough for you to say. You actually get to use whatever ID you want. Me, I dedicated eighteen months building this one, and now – sorry, but going back to square one is gonna suck."

Charlie snorted smoke. "You're gonna have all the time in the world, Tim."

"One thing I'm not gonna miss? That stupid name," he said, taking his badge from his pocket and looking at his photo. "Tim Roper," he said with a childish sarcasm. "Do I look like a Tim Roper?"

"A little."

"Very fuckin' funny."

"Everybody's first field assignment, the names are random selections from the cemetery file. Company policy," Charlie said, crushing a cigarette into the ashtray. "Mine was Willard."

"First or last?" Roper asked, flipping the wallet, and admiring his badge.

"First," Charlie replied, sliding open the night table drawer and finding his watch. "I don't even remember the last."

Roper grinned. "Hey, you'll always be Charlie to me."

Charlie's face fell. "Yeah," he said. "And you'll always be Tim." Then, in one swift movement, he pulled the pistol from the open drawer, spun around, and put a single bullet through the other man's right eye. Roper didn't even have time to be stunned by it.

"Company policy," Charlie said, tossing the pistol on the bed, and walking out, past the dead man's ruined line of sight.

* * *

"Why the hell aren't you already on a plane?" Kendrick hissed. 

"There was a – misunderstanding – regarding me keeping my wallet," Al replied. "I'm fine. I've got a commercial flight into JFK, and from there I'll get back to LA. Transportation isn't the issue right now, sir. If you want my intel - "

"Fine. So the death in London was similar?" Kendrick asked.

"It was practically identical," Al said. "The only difference was no sex. But the body had gone through the same ordeal. The pictures that you'll be receiving over the secure network in the next hour will confirm that."

"Did your sources help you gain access to anything besides photos?"

_"Eddie?" Parker had said to the man who was waiting by the elevator, a stunned expression crossing his face._

"I was able to speak with two of the people that found the body," Al replied. "One was the hotel concierge – he didn't even go into the room. The other was a security chief named Parker. Turns out he's ex-SAS, and was allowed to accompany some of the MI-5 people to canvass the hotel and surrounding buildings."

"Parker?"

_"What are you doing here?" Parker asked, puzzled. Al felt the world slow to a crawl as a grin formed on Eddie's face and he raised a pistol at his supervisor - and pulled the trigger._

"Right," Al said.

"First name?" one of the analysts asked.

They're taking notes, Al thought. Good. "Jeff. Or Jeffrey."

"Go on," Kendrick said.

"What happened was, the concierge got a complaint from the room next door about noise," Al said, trying to keep the details as brief as he could. "He calls his security people, they go up to the room to check it out. When nobody answered, they opened the door. And on the floor, one very dead British chemist, with enough glass shards in his back to be fatal – but its pretty obvious what really killed him. Apparently, he'd been enjoying some tea on the balcony."

"Name?"

Al retrieved the information from his memory, like he was pulling it off the graffiti scratched into the booth. "Oliver Whitton. Age fifty-seven. Twice-divorced, no kids. Ph. D in psychology from Oxford – and another in molecular biology from Stanford."

Steinman spoke up quickly. "Is it possible that he knew our – "

_"Al Maxwell? No way it's you," Eddie said, training his Walther at Al, who couldn't take his eyes away from the groaning man who was clutching his throat._

"Possible just became likely," Kendrick said. "See if we can find a match."

"Already found one," one of the unnamed analysts said. "He's on the Japanese transcripts."

"Japanese?" Al asked.

"Scientist named Hiro Rikku was shot and killed yesterday in Kyoto," Steinman said. "Grace Donnelly was a former colleague of his, and apparently so was Whitton, according to this."

Al's stomach was burning. "Whitton had a tail put on him by MI-5 in spring of 1978. There was concern that he was selling his skills to the highest bidder, but no real proof. According to the source I was talking to – Parker hooked me up with him – they have cabinets full of intel on this guy, but none of it added up to anything more than a strong suspicion."

_Eddie and Al threw one punch after another at each other, then Eddie swept Al's legs from under him, putting him flat on his back, inches from the ledge to the next level of the garage. "Sorry, my friend, nothing personal," he said, reaching for the gun he'd lost. Al set his jaw, took a breath, and rolled off the ledge._

"Guys?" Another strange voice had piped up. "You need to hear this. About two hours ago, the Japanese authorities were searching Rikku's apartment, trying to find out about his Yakuza contacts. One of the cops – one of 'em gets a dry throat, coughing. Five minutes later, he's feverish. They send him to a car, and ten minutes later, they find him busted open and folded the wrong way on the sidewalk."

Kendrick's voice was forceful. "Warn our Kyoto team. And get them full details."

"This isn't pinpoint targeting – it'll kill anyone who comes in contact with it," one of the tech officers said.

"We've got more than a strong suspicion now. Especially of a link between these three," Kendrick said.

_As he pulled his stunned body between a sedan and a support post, Al couldn't get the over-riding image out of his mind: a smiling Eddie, casually executing his boss, and then coming after him._

"And with these deaths occurring over such long distances in such a short span of time – "

"This is definitely not the work of one man."

Al suddenly slammed his injured fist against the wall of the phone booth. "Goddammit! Why didn't -"

"What? What is it?"

"I just put this together - Halliwell remembers in the hall outside the room that the complaint came from next door, and starts freaking out – the caller said he had a wife and kids with him, what if the killer got to them, that sort of thing. Parker and another security officer – "

_"You've got a job to do. I've got a job to do. We're professionals," Eddie called through the empty air, while Al gripped the edges of crumbling concrete with bloodied fingers, trying to catch his breath, and keep from being seen as the man passed his field of vision, not ten feet from him._

" – those two open up the room next door. There's nobody there. Room's clean, bed's still made, balcony door closed and locked. But when MI-5 does an electronics sweep, the detector goes off the chart. They check the phone – and find that it's been seriously rewired. Apparently, someone – or some ones - rejiggered it so that they could reroute their calls through the phone in that room, and then trick the PBX system into thinking that calls were coming from there."

"Were the calls made locally?"

_"I don't know who you are," Al said emphatically, hurling himself at his ultimate assailant, and attempting to wrest the pistol away from him. Suddenly, he felt the shock of the weapon discharging, and thought he might have been the victim for an instant, until he felt the other man seize._

"No clue," Al said. "Their tech guys were still working on it. But from what Parker told me about the canvass, they found a set of binoculars and a 35-millimeter camera with a very long lens on it across the street. And the camera had no film in it."

"There's multiple suspects then. I'll notify Langley. Situation report and options papers, two hours," Kendrick said. Then, with a surprising magnanimity, "Good work, Al. Get home."

_Eddie lay in a pool of his own black blood. Al had the Walther in his hand and was pressing the muzzle to the dying man's temple. "Do your…job…Al," Eddie said._

"Thank you, sir," Al replied. "Miss Steinman, could you stay on the line, please? There's a few questions I have about the Kyoto incidents," Al said. One by one, he could hear the sounds of analysts and agents disconnecting from the call.

Then, they were alone. "What is it, Agent Maxwell?" she asked.

_Al felt the rage build inside him. And he said each word slowly: "I don't know you. Eddie." And then he squeezed the trigger, putting the last bullet in the Walther through the prone man's skull._

"I'm...sorry." Al breathed in and out. There was more to say, but he just didn't have the words handy.

"About what?"

"About...about a lot of things," he said in a near-whisper.

"It's okay," she replied.

"Look, Sarah, when I get back to LA…if you want to…maybe…get some dinner…" he felt himself stammering.

"Al," she said.

"I know it's kinda out of the blue – I just need to talk to somebody," he said.

He could almost see her smile. "I'll meet you after debrief," she said.

"Thank you," Al said, feeling a sharp pain in his hands. He flexed the knuckles, reopening the cuts. "And Sarah, I need you to connect me to Jack, ASAP, if you can. I haven't had any luck trying to reach him myself."

"Hold the line," she said.

* * *

Charlie's assigned callbox was a bus station pay phone twenty blocks from his motel – a half-booth right next to the usual assortment of homeless vets and down the hall from a broken soda machine. Nobody went near it. That made it an ideal location for phone calls that you didn't want broadcast. Unfortunately, he didn't want to be making this call. "You know I hate this cloak-and-dagger shit. This is why I left the service to begin with," he said. 

"Charlie, just do the job," the voice on the other end replied. "And it'll be done, and you'll get paid."

He had to admit, his handler was always calm. Bored, even; the world had nothing that could make him boil over. "Why'd you send Roper to me?" Charlie asked.

"Because we're closing up shop here, and he's a loose end," the voice responded. "You're my loose end guy."

"How exactly was he a loose end?" Charlie hushed his tone. "Having a homicide detective on the payroll isn't usually a liability for our business."

An audible sigh on the other end, then, in a firm – but never curt – tone, came the response, "We are hired to do specific tasks, to handle specific threats. Tim Roper wasn't capable of performing his duties in the simplest posts. Sooner or later, he was going to screw up." A pause. "Matter of fact, he already had. Several times."

Charlie nodded, mostly for himself. "Christ, you think I didn't know that?" he asked. "Our problem is, the LAPD recognizes him as one of their own. They're going to launch an investigation – heads could fucking roll."

The firm tone stayed. "I'm not dancing about it, either. But the London situation paired with our freelancer getting capped in Japan means that we've got loose ends to tie up."

Charlie exhaled. "And that's what I'm going to be doing for the rest of my time here."

"Yep," was the response. Bored again. "Have you opened the envelope yet?"

"Yeah," Charlie said, flipping through the bound dossier. "This is everything? Names, faces, places?"

"And the exit strategy."

"Kyoto was totally fucked up?"

"Total botch," the voice said, showing little spark. "That and London combined means that I have to do Lyon myself. And possibly Amsterdam, unless you want it."

"Pass," Charlie said. "Once the money's in my hands, I'm going to Rio for the next six months. Nothing but sun, sand, bottomless drinks and topless chicks." He noticed the CIA imprint at the top of the second sheet.

"Sounds like a frat boy's fantasy," the voice responded.

"So I'm a frat boy," Charlie replied.

"But take care of those loose ends first, Charlie," was the other man's interjection, as Charlie's attention was drawn to the blank expression of the man in the photograph. "We're counting on you." Then a click on the other end, and the dial tone.

Charlie hung up. He turned away from the phone booth, his eyes reading the name on the top sheet.

**Jack Bristow.**

* * *

"Sydney," Jack said, through her closed bedroom door. He knocked again. "Sydney, please." 

No answer. He turned the knob, opened the door, and found her bedroom as empty as the rest of the house. He realized that he was trembling now, just a bit.

"Oh, God, Jack," Irina said. "You lost her. You hurt her feelings, just like you always do, and now, you've lost her."

Jack wanted to throttle the bitch, but there was no traitor's neck to grab.

The phone rang, breaking the silence, and making his heart skip a beat. He found himself racing to it, nearly stumbling down the stairs. Luckily, he caught himself on the handrail, and on the fourth ring, picked up the receiver. "Sydney?" he asked with some urgency.

"It's Sarah Steinman, Mr. Bristow," the woman's voice replied. "Mr. Maxwell is on a secure line for you."

A trio of beeps. Then Al's voice came over the phone. "Where the blue fuck were you? I've been trying to – "

"Sydney's gone," Jack said.

"Gone? Where?"

"I don't know. No note, no message."

"Strange," Al said. "I just talked to her - "

"Just? When?" Jack asked, his voice tensing.

"About two hours ago," Al replied. "I was looking for you. She said you weren't home."

Two hours? She could be anywhere, Jack thought. His mind was a-whirl. "Did she say anything to you? About if she was going somewhere?"

"No, Jack," Al said. "She just sounded…."

"What?"

It took a moment for Al to reply. "Sad," he said.

* * *

Charlie parked in the open space on the tree-lined street, and began to walk. He'd secured the weapon to his body so it wouldn't cause his jacket to shift unnaturally. He noticed the green lawns, the large front porches, the kids playing in a yard not too far away. 

He remembered the number of the house he was looking for: **12004.** And there it was, just across the way, with its impeccable lawn, and a white picket fence.

This was one hell of a nice neighborhood, he thought. He turned his face away and pretended to cough as he crossed the street. He wanted to avoid being seen by the children. No need to have more loose ends.

* * *

"I was a real jackass to her last night," Jack confessed. "And then, worst of all, I left her alone while she was asleep." 

"Yeah, that's not good parenting."

"I know, I've been kicking myself all morning."

The sound of a PA echoed over the line. Al's voice tightened. "That's my plane. Listen, Jack, have you been in contact with the office at all today?"

"When I woke up on the 405," Jack said. Was there somebody coming up the sidewalk? He could have sworn he saw a shadow on the fence.

"You what?"

"I don't want to talk about it right now," Jack said, trying to see through the crack in the drawn curtains. "I called the office. They brought me up to speed."

"With what they had then. I've got confirmation that our boy wasn't acting alone."

"How?" _Footsteps. On the porch. Jack was sure._

The static on the line increased dramatically. Then Al said, "Shit, they just called my row. I'll talk to you more at home. Look, check in with Sarah – Steinman – or one of the other analysts, or hell, if you have to, even Kendrick. Let them know you talked to me, and I brought you up to speed. You need to meet me at LAX, and no one else."

"Why?" Jack asked. A shape crossed through the shaft of light streaming through the window. Jack was feeling the alarms going off in his head.

"I can't tell you now. I promise, when I get back."

"Damn it, Al. What is it?" _A knock at his door. Heavy. Hard._ Jack's brain immediately flashed to the location of his nearest weapon – the .38 revolver in his desk drawer. Too far away to retrieve now.

A pause. "I can't say, Jack. I can't. Aw, shit. Second call, I gotta run," Al said. Jack held the phone to his ear and starting walking for the door, craning his neck to grab a glimpse of who might be outside, but seeing no one. The next knocks were even heavier.

Al's voice grew more and more distant. "It's just – I don't know, Jack," he said, a twinge of fear creeping into his voice. "Maybe I'm just imagining things – but I don't think our boy was finished with his business in LA. I think he's still there."

At that, the line went dead…

_…and the knocking stopped, too…_

**TO BE CONTINUED…**


	6. ZERO PLUS FIVE

_I have two - actually, two-and-a-half - reasons for posting this update:_

_**1) I can't believe that I haven't already put it up here,**_

_**2) I want to finish this story, but - **_

_**2b) - I have no idea if anyone out there cares or not.**_

_Believe it or not, I have the rest of this completely mapped - yeah, three years later, I still have the outline, scrawled in longhand, in a box somewhere in my closet. It's moved with me twice, I've come across it again and again, and yet, I haven't had the time to finish it._

_So I need people to tell me if it's worth putting in the effort. I have six reviews - as of July 2, 2008 - if I can get three more, I will get on the horse again. The story has crossed the 1000 hit mark (**THANK YOU!**), so there's interest, but now I need to know if people want more..._

_The fate of this one is in your hands, O Kind Readers..._

**POISONED**

**ZERO PLUS FIVE**

There was a pause between the end of the thumping on the door, and Jack's next heartbeat, and for that instant, he wondered if time had suddenly ceased to exist. But then he felt the even tempo return in his ribcage, and knew that the clock hadn't stopped for him. His pulse pushed the dizzying flood of adrenaline coursing through his arteries and into his coiled muscles.

The chemical rush was making his hands shake, so he took deep, even breaths to keep the oxygen flowing. As he exhaled, Jack gently set the phone back in its cradle and picked up the letter opener that was lying on the short stack of bills. He flipped it over in his hand, concealing the blade behind his forearm, and moved past the openings of the curtains to avoid exposure.

He flattened his back against the door frame and gripped the knob. His survival instinct had to drive him – if he didn't know the person on the other side of the entryway, he would act decisively. Even if it meant that someone would die in broad daylight on his front porch. So quick and quiet was the rule.

"_Wasn't it always?_" Irina giggled inside his head.

Jack wanted to push the sound of her out of his head. He wanted to clap his hands over his ears – but she was inside them, so rooted to his brain that he'd have to die to lose her. And that wasn't going to happen today. So he gripped the letter opener tighter and began to mentally count his steps.

**_First._** He would keep the assailant close to the door, or as close he could.

**_Second._** He'd keep his front foot planted, and his body at an angle to make it more difficult for an attacker to hit a vulnerable spot.

**_Third._** He would pull the body toward his so there wouldn't be much of anything for a curious neighbor or stray passerby to witness – he'd hook an arm around the assailant's shoulder, like a friendly embrace, while he was driving the blade into a stranger's heart.

"_Jack, please – you're turning me on,_" she purred.

Jack flashed through his plan one last time as counted his heartbeats, set his jaw, and took one last breath, feeling the contoured handle of the letter opener in his palm. Then he squeezed it tighter, pulling the door open as he did. And then he saw the face, instantly recognizing it, and tried to loosen his muscle constriction, but didn't fully succeed. "Miss - uh - Jimenez?" he asked, the question coming out as a bark.

"Mr. Bristow?" she said, startled. Her eyes were wide with shock.

"I'm sorry, I thought – " Jack pretended to stammer as he slipped the letter opener up his sleeve. The adrenal rush aided his 'pretending'.

Pilar blinked, then stepped aside and revealed Sydney, standing just behind her. Her eyes were downcast.

"Sydney," Jack said, trying to hide his relief, and not doing very well. Then he felt the anger bubbling in his throat, and had to push that down as well. Finally, he said, "Up to your room, please," in a flat, featureless tone. He opened the door wider, and Sydney dashed through it, then up the stairs. Then he turned the woman at the door. "Thank you for bringing my daughter home," he added, in an off-hand way, then began to close the door again.

She pressed a palm against it. "Sydney asked if she could stay with us for the next few days," Pilar said. "She's working with my daughter on a final project for school, and wanted time with her. I told her that she had to ask you."

His eyes narrowed for an instant, then he nodded. "Yes, of course," he said, realizing an opening. If the situation was as serious as Al had made it sound, Sydney had to be kept at a safe distance until it was over. Pilar's offer made this a reality. He relaxed his posture. "Since I may be leaving town on business tomorrow, this is probably a happy coincidence," Jack said, a small smile forming. A calm had settled in him. _This woman's presence was rather…soothing_, he thought.

Her eyes narrowed a bit, like she was trying to see into him, then she nodded. "I'm guessing you won't be back until next week," she replied.

"Probably sooner, but I can't say for sure," Jack said.

Pilar's nod was measured. She gestured toward her car. "Tell her I'm waiting," she said, then she turned and walked down the steps.

"Sure," Jack replied, watching her for a moment, then he closed the door, and began to climb the stairs. He found himself thinking about her shape for an instant, and the way the tail of her denim shirt had floated up when she turned –

"Don't you dare," Irina hissed at him.

* * *

**CIA REGIONAL HEADQUARTERS  
ASSISTANT DIRECTOR KENDRICK'S OFFICE**

Kendrick returned to his office and a ringing phone. He glanced toward his secretary's desk – the empty chair seemed to mock him. He sighed, and pulled the receiver to his ear. "Paul Kendrick," he said flatly.

"It's Charlie," was the reply. It was cool. Detached. Like always.

The assistant director's face turned ashen. "What? What's going – ? "

"I'm back," the voice on the other end said.

"Why?" Kendrick's eyes scanned the caller ID readout. It was blank.

A single chuckle. "I'm not telling you."

"You're on a secure line," Kendrick said. "No one else is listening."

"I know that. I am calling from your house, after all."

Kendrick felt his stomach collapse from sudden fear. "Why?"

"I knew _your_ phone wouldn't be tapped, you paranoid bastard," Charlie said.

Paul's knuckles whitened around the receiver. "Where's my – "

Charlie interrupted Kendrick's thought. "How are the wife and kids, by the way? They weren't around when I popped in. Everybody still healthy?"

Paul was at first relieved, and then his blood began to heat. "Is that a threat?"

"Okay, first off, I'd never threaten your family. I like them. Second, and you should know this by know, if I was threatening you, you wouldn't be asking me that question."

Anger was creeping into Paul's voice. "So why are you doing this, Charlie? Just trying to break a four-year old cover to fuck with me?"

"No," Charlie barked. Then, in a softer tone, "I'm chest-deep in something, and it's just started, and I can't stop it."

"What is it?" Paul asked, trying to cool his temper.

A long pause. "No," he said finally. "I'm not telling you."

Kendrick felt the frustration spiking in his chest. "Charlie, I'm the assistant director of the Los Angeles office now."

"Congratulations," Charlie said. "Desk jockey always suited you, jobwise."

"I'm saying that no matter what this thing is, I can help," Kendrick said. "And the worse it is, the more I can do."

"No, you can't," Charlie replied, rock-steady. "There's exactly one person on Earth that I can trust with this – and it sure as hell isn't you."

"Then who?"

"Al Maxwell," he replied.

* * *

**BRITISH AIRWAYS  
FLIGHT 434**

In the dark of first class, his head resting against the window, Al Maxwell's body slept.

But his mind would not.

**"Eddie?" Parker asked.**

**Al watched from a distance. He saw himself, active in the moment. Parker, too, just to his right. And Eddie, waiting by the elevator, a patient figure…**

**The Observing Al tried to say something from his different viewpoint, but his words were merely mumbles, and no one was listening anyway.**

**"What are you doing here?" Parker continued.**

**…Eddie's smile was inhuman from where Observing Al was standing, frozen as he was …**

**"**_**You've got a job to do.**_**"**

**…doing no one any good as Eddie was casually blowing a hole through his boss's throat, splattering gobs of crimson and black grue against a parked car…**

"_**I've got a job to do.**_**"**

**…then turning his gaze, and coming for Active Al, still peaceful, still smiling…**

**"We're professionals," Eddie called as Active Al ran. Observing Al watched him pass, watched Eddie pass. Watched Parker gasp and struggle against the torrent of gore and the panic of asphyxiation. Watched as the garage lights shifted and dipped and Parker's face melted and reformed into**

_**...nonono...**_

**Jack Bristow's. Still, there was the gasp and struggle. And neither Al could help. Could not stop him. Eddie, who was burying the muzzle in Jack's belly now, emptying the weapon's terrible weight into and through Jack until there was nothing but the click of the hammer against spent shells.**

**Observing Al saw Jack's eyes – haunting, glazing, full of pain. But he was limp, falling onto Eddie, and Eddie let him fall. Jack's corpse landed with a disturbing squish. The bullets had ripped him open and spilled him out. Active Al turned back, let out a cry, and threw himself into Eddie.**

**"**_**You've got a job to do.**_**"**

**Observing Al heard it, even though Eddie's mouth did not move. He turned. Saw Active Al losing a fight. Eddie pummeling him. Hard punches to the face. Active Al, cut now, bloody now. Unable to escape. So wounded, so tired. Saw Eddie press a pistol into Active Al's ribcage –**

**And from the distance, Observing Al felt the ring of the muzzle poking between the ribs…the heat and smell of the gun oil…Eddie's pungent breath, smelling of death and decay, coffee and cigarettes, just like he was in Observing Al's face simultaneously…**

**He said a word or two that neither of the Als could hear, and he said them with a smirk, then:**

**BLAM! ripping into the left lung.**

**BLAM! piercing the right ventricle.**

**BLAM! shredding the aorta.**

**And Active Al lay retching, choking, dying...and Eddie stood over him, still smiling, still peaceful.**

**"Al Maxwell," he said. "I thought it was you."**

**Observing Al had felt everything. He tasted the blood in his mouth – rich and hot and thick. But he was still standing, still in one piece. And Eddie was paying him no mind.****  
**

**"And why should I? You're paralytic. Useless," Eddie said. Eddie didn't even look at Observing Al while he spoke. "Besides, I've got more important things to do. Like watching him die." He pointed his pistol at the dying Active Al.**

**Observing Al tried to say something.**

**Eddie didn't look up from the dying one's blackening eyes. "No. No mercy for you, Al."**

_**…that's his speed…**_

**And that's when Observing Al felt his hands move. A rush of energy, like he was falling very fast. An electrical burst in his legs springing him forward. Then he dipped his shoulder and crashed into Eddie, toppling him, and knocking the pistol away.**

**Now Observing Al had an upper hand. He drove his knees into the other man's chest. Trying to crush him. To silence him. To erase him. Eddie kept smiling, and offered no resistance, even as Observing Al drove all his weight into the other man. "I don't know who you are," Al said emphatically, ultimately pressing a pistol muzzle against Eddie's temple.**

**"**_**Liar…**_**" Eddie sang.**

**BLAM! the bullet smashed through Eddie's skull…**

**…rewind!…**

**"**_**Liar…**_**" he sang.**

**BLAM! the bullet smashed through Eddie's skull…**

**…rewind!…**

**"**_**Liar…**_**" he sang.**

**BLAM! the bullet smashed through Eddie's skull…**

**…rewind!…**

**"**_**I'll tell Ja-ack…**_**" he sang.**

**BLAM!**

Al's eyes snapped open. He felt the pounding in his head, and the image of the other man, blood and brain and bone splattered on the concrete, was still there, burned in – a ghost in his vision.

Still bewildered from the sudden waking, he took a few breaths, then hit the call button. His heart was skipping beats, and he tried to steady it. A sharp-featured attendant appeared in the aisle, leaning over the sleeping form in the seat between them. "Yes, sir," she said, frowning a bit when she noticed his expression – along with his cuts and bruises. "Are you all right?"

"My head – uh – could I get some aspirin or something, please?"

"Certainly."

"Thank you." Al settled back into his seat. "Oh, and how long until…"

"About ninety minutes," the woman replied before she disappeared down the aisle again.

Al turned his attention out the window. There was nothing to see yet - no city lights, no friendly landmarks, just miles of black ocean thirty thousand feet below.

He fought against his urge to fall asleep. Every time he blinked he saw Eddie's face – that last image from his dream. Al decided right then and there that f he had to duct tape his eyes open, so be it - he wasn't sleeping again until this was finished. He was only six hours from LA. Six hours from meeting up with Jack. And then, the answers would come. The plan would take shape. He found himself feeling calmer by the moment.

_They started this_, he thought. _I'm ending it._

Kendrick leaned his body against his desk, pushing the phone tighter to his ear. "Why Maxwell? At least tell me that."

"I'm not telling you a **damn** thing," Charlie replied. "It's Al, or I vanish."

"Agent Maxwell's on assignment. He returns tonight."

"Perfect." A derisive chuckle. "You let him know I'm coming to see him."

Kendrick felt a rush of panic as he heard the rustle of the phone cord and the dead air on the other end. "Wait," he said.

"For what?" Charlie asked.

"Would you be willing to talk to his partner?" he asked.

A snort on the other end. "Partner, huh? Who's that, some geek just off the CIA truck?"

Kendrick saw a possible break. "No, he's a top senior officer. Name's Jack Bristow."

There was silence on the other end. It seemed agonizingly long to Kendrick. Finally, Charlie's voice returned, and rather curtly said, "For the last time, _a_sshole. Al. Maxwell. No one else."

"Charlie. If you come in, I swear I'll do whatever – " Paul tried to reason with him, but the line was dead before he could finish the sentence. In a flash, he was dialing his phone, hands trembling. When there was an answer, he said, "Charlie's trying to surface. So what now?"

* * *

By the time Jack reached his daughter's room, he could hear her closet door sliding open, and the rattle of hangers. Then the dull thump of a suitcase landing on her bed. He stepped into the doorway, finding her poised over it. Sydney's attention was on her packing, not on anything else.

But she said, "I'm going to stay with Karen and her mom. Our project – "

Jack nodded. "It's fine with me," he said softly. "Mrs. Jimenez is waiting out front."

Sydney nodded a bit, but kept her eyes down, even as she moved back and forth from her closet or her dresser, retrieving clothes and other personal items, and then back to her bed, carefully packing them in an ordered space. Jack noticed a tremble in her hands. "We're way behind on it," she said, her voice cracking a bit, "and it's twenty-five percent of the grade of the class, and Karen and I, we just want to focus on getting it right, so that's why I'm going." She sniffed, then quickly _ahemed_ to cover it.

But Jack knew. His only daughter was trying very hard not to cry in front of him. The shame he felt in his belly was beginning to spill through him, and he had to bite the inside of his lip to keep it from quivering.

She snapped the clasps shut on the lid of the suitcase and grasped the handle. "I better not keep her waiting."

He moved out of the doorway to let her pass. As she did, he reached out to touch her shoulder, and like she could sense his movement, she twisted out of his reach, then practically sprinted down the stairs and out the front door, which closed with a deceptive quietness.

Jack felt his weight begin to melt, and his back found the wall. Shame was now anguish and it was thickening in his gut and his chest. And he found himself staring at the pattern in the gray-green wallpaper, seeing how the gray and white and black twisted and gnarled and unbraided again and again.

"_Poor Jack_," he heard Irina whisper from somewhere very near. "_Poor, sad, pathetic Jack_."

At that moment, he couldn't disagree. But before he could lapse into catatonia, the phone rang again, and Jack pulled himself together so he could answer it. He walked into his daughter's empty room, and picked up her extension.

He barely had time to say his name before he heard Kendrick's clipped words. "Jack," he said. "We have a situation."

* * *

**CIA REGIONAL HEADQUARTERS  
TECH ANALYSIS AND RESEARCH DIVISION**

Sarah inhaled the aroma of the coffee in her mug – sweet, a little nutty. She took a long sip, all the while eyeballing the trio of cryptographers who had elbowed their way into the already cramped space. They were shuffling and sorting through the printouts that Al had sent from London before he caught his flight home.

_No_, she corrected herself. Al hadn't sent anything. Al's source had sent the documents. Who that source was, he didn't say. He didn't say a lot of things.

But he did say he wanted to see her again.

She had to admit he'd been sort of a pipe dream for her. She'd see him in the hall, or sitting alone in the cafeteria, or walking into a conference room while she was walking out. She smiled to herself. It was kind of like, well, high school. She was the smart, gawky girl who ran the projector in Bio Lab, or was Vice President of Chess Club, and he was the star quarterback whose intellect and sensitivity only seemed to pop up during Study Hall. And then, one night, she got up the courage to take off her glasses and let her hair down…

_…and it was a John Hughes movie_, she thought.

Al Maxwell was the kind of man that it was easy to develop a schoolgirl crush on – good-looking, funny, and even a bit sweet, which was certainly not a common trait around here. The post-Christmas party fling had been exactly what she'd imagined at one time a fling was supposed to be – a sip of naughtiness; kind of illicit, kind of innocent – and she'd wanted to return to that professional relationship, really, truly – but he had stuck in her head. Some might have accused her of being a bit obsessed with him. To tell the truth, she would have been one of those people. But the aftermath was fairly quiet – he had been in and out of the office for the last several months, and was all business when they ended up in the same conference room, which wasn't that often. He'd barely string two words together toward her when they'd had any face-to-face meetings.

But now….

The chief cryptographer tapped her on the shoulder, and stole her reverie. "Excuse me," he said, with enough force to get the words out, but not much else. "I need those." He was gesturing toward the folder she was holding.

Sarah handed them over. "Any progress?" she asked, as she let Al exit her mind.

"Some, but the going's very slow," he replied, spreading out the pages. "Still trying to find the key to a big chunk of it." The chief began eyeballing each page. "But we have found something interesting," he said.

"What?" Sarah asked. She remembered the chief's name was Ernie, but hadn't the faintest clue as to how she knew. Maybe he just looked like an Ernie – brush-cut hair, hang-dog face, suspenders.

"Well, as you can guess, the digitized material is encrypted using state-of-the-art seven-key – " Ernie suddenly stopped, scanned Sarah's eyes, then continued, " – a super-complicated system, in other words. This material's going into our computers and we'll break it in there. But the handwritten material, that's all alpha-numeric."

Sarah nodded. The other crypto guys – one with thick, square eyeglasses, the other with the face of a bright eleven-year old – were nodding too. "Almost has to be," she said.

"Right. So it's also fairly recognizable." Ernie pointed at certain stacks of paper on the table. "These were written in 22 Moscow. This one is standard Right-to-Left 11. And these two are in Bottom-Top Verticle Y. All in all, nearly 200 pages of handwritten material that we can decode and read right now – everything from dashed-off notes to elaborate letters, and other documentation."

"So we have a handle on what they were doing," Sarah said.

"Well, we will," Ernie said. "There's an organizational theme to all of it – "

"Pieces of a puzzle," she replied.

"Pretty much. The analysts – you, for example – will fit them together and we'll nab some bad guys."

The crypto guy with the squared-off eyeglasses twitched. "But, uh, Ern - you forgot to mention the other thing."

Sarah blinked at Ernie. "Other thing?"

"Oh, yeah," Ernie said, biting a lip.

* * *

**THE JIMENEZ RESIDENCE**

Sydney sat on the Jimenez's well-worn sofa, staring at the blank television screen. Pilar poked her head into the living room. "Where's Karen?" she asked.

"In her room," Sydney replied.

"And you weren't invited?" Pilar asked.

"She said she had a surprise for me."

"Well, would you like some popcorn or something?" she asked. "While you wait?"

"No thanks," Sydney replied.

Pilar nodded. "So this project, it's a big deal for the two of you, huh?"

"Yeah," Sydney said. "I think Karen's concept is absolutely awesome, but going to San Francisco put us way behind."

"Well, I'm glad your dad was willing to let you stay with us so you two could finish up."

Sydney nodded absently as Karen appeared from around another corner, her hands behind her back.

"What's this?" Pilar asked.

Karen's arms came from behind her back, and in her hands was a cardboard cube, about eight inches tall. "**_Ta-daaah!_**" she proclaimed, then gave it to Sydney. She then took a step back, as if she needed a better view.

Sydney smiled, confused. She lifted the lid, peered inside, and then beamed. "No way," she said.

Karen smirked. "Yes way," she replied.

* * *

Sarah could see that Ernie was trying not to be squirrelly - and failing. "The page count on the handwritten is 214," he mumbled. "We have 190 – "

" – 192 – " Four-Square-Eyes interjected.

" - 192 pages sorted, organized, and ready," Ernie said.

Sarah looked at the separate pile. "So there's twenty – "

"Twenty-two." Ol' Four-Square-Eyes was at it again.

" – twenty-two that – what?"

Ernie squirmed a bit. "That we can't read."

Sarah felt herself take a breath. "Excuse me?"

"We know the writer or writers used alpha-numeric," Ernie said. "We know that they are similar in style and form to other, more commonly used codes. But when we try the similar coding, we get gibberish."

"So what's the next step?" Sarah asked.

Ernie hooked his thumbs in his pants pockets. "We'll run through every variant we can think of, then if need be, put it in front of our best people in Virginia. Hell, if we have to run it through the computer, we'll do that too."

Suddenly the eleven-year old found his voice. "Hey, are you guys seeing what I'm seeing?" He pointed to the top unreadable page. "Notice the handwriting itself."

"What about it?" Ernie asked.

"Our guys verified that all of the pages we can read were written by either Rikku, Donnelly, or Whitton, right?" the Wunderkind asked.

Sarah squinted a bit. "The scientists wrote their own coded messages?"

"To each other, and to unidentified persons. But that's not the thing."

"Then what is?" Sarah asked.

Ernie's face fell even further. "The twenty-two pages we can't read weren't written by any of them."

Sarah was stunned. "Someone else wrote the pages we can't decode?"

The Wunderkind seemed to be glowing from his discovery. "Logical, isn't it? I mean, since we can't verify that any of the scientists knew this code – "

" – since none of them were writing it – " Four-Square-Eyes added.

"It kinda stands to reason. Don'cha think?" The Wunderkind seemed quite pleased with himself.

Sarah suddenly realized she wasn't nearly the geek she'd imagined being. "Keep me posted on that, and start sending the decoded pages out. And speaking of keeping people posted," she said as she grabbed the telephone. "Get AD Kendrick for me," she said in her usual tone. Then her brow crinkled. "What do you mean, 'Kendrick's gone'?" she fairly shouted, startling the men.

* * *

The phone call had puzzled Jack. Kendrick had asked him to come to his house. Said it was important. To come right away.

Jack wasn't sure about this. Kendrick's most recent behavior had been beyond odd. And now this invitation, to an address he'd never visited before. Jack knew that Kendrick had been close to Grace Donnelly, and her family. The shock of her death had taken an obvious toll.

But this surveillance kick was bordering on a sickness.

"_You know why he does it, Jack?_" Irina asked. Then she answered, "_He fears you. Envies you. Maybe even hates you a little._"

"Why?" Jack replied.

"_Because you are who you are. And he is who he is. But he will never be you_." Then he felt something brush his cheek – like a fleeting kiss. Jack turned to face her, but she wasn't there.

_She's never there_, he thought. _She seduced me, she cheated me, she abandoned me. It was the same song over and over –_

He suddenly saw Sydney's sad face in his mind's eye. How she couldn't look at him while she packed her bag.

The words pinged through his brain:

_**Never there.**_

_**Cheated.**_

_**Abandoned.**_

As he turned down another strange street, feeling self-loathing eating his belly, he caught sight of the house. He leafed through his mental notes, and found the match. He'd managed to find it.

But he didn't have the strength to move. He could only sit in the car, and chew on the inside of his mouth.

* * *

Pilar shook her head. "What? What is it?"

Sydney lifted the prized item from the box and held it up like a trophy – it was brassy and wooden and polished and looked to Pilar like it was all one piece, until she noticed some of it shift.

"It's a puzzle," Karen said, for her mother's benefit.

"Yeah," Sydney said. "See all these lines and things on the sides – they fit together in a very specific way." She turned it once to indicate how it worked. "They can spell out words or make geometric shapes, depending on how you put the puzzle together."

Karen nodded. "And if you put it together absolutely right – "

"You win, like, a million dollars." Sydney giggled. "Or something. How did you get this?"

"I had money left over from the per diem," Karen replied.

"But how'd you get it without me knowing?"

"I bought it at the gift shop the last morning we were in San Francisco. You were meeting with that group from Japan, and I said I wasn't feeling good?"

"Very sneaky," Sydney replied. "And I bet you packed it with the UN stuff that went to our school – and that you were in charge of."

"Bingo," Karen said.

"Wow," Sydney said. "I'm sorry I didn't get you anything."

"Don't be silly. You're my best friend, and it's your birthday – "

"It's your birthday, Sydney?" Pilar asked.

Sydney's real smile was replaced by a false one. "Saturday," she replied. Her voice had softened to near-silence.

* * *

**_How could he do that to her? Again?_** Jack's vision blurred, and he felt the sting and heat in his eyes.

* * *

"And your dad let you stay with us?" Pilar asked, her voice tight.

"He's so busy nowadays," Sydney said.

* * *

_It's for her_, he thought. _For her safety. You put her aside, and keep her at a safe distance, so she won't have to worry. So she won't get hurt._

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that," he heard someone say. He looked for Irina's ghost, then realized it was his own voice.

* * *

Sydney's spirits seemed to brighten as she changed the subject. "And our project needs to get done, birthday or not."

"Yeah," Karen said, then added, "But her dad's probably going to do something for her next week. Something really cool."

"Sure," Sydney said, with a stiff nod.

* * *

Jack debated with himself for a moment about this meeting. _Kendrick's finally slipped_, he thought. _Dragged me out here to the middle of nowhere, probably wants to bust me for not staying home. _

No, he decided. Kendrick might be a political animal in the office, but the man who had called him was not the same person. He was scared, almost panicked. Like he'd heard or seen something he knew he 

should never hear or see. Jack breathed in and out, then blew his breath through his teeth, and climbed out of his car. He wiped his eyes with a handkerchief, then let his emotions dissipate, like vapor into the air.

* * *

"Well, then, girls," Pilar said. "I was looking for an excuse to find something fun to do tonight. Let's go grab some ice cream after dinner."

"And maybe a movie?" Karen asked hopefully.

Pilar smiled. "If Sydney wants to."

"Yeah," Sydney said. "That'd be all right."

"Hey, anything for the birthday girl," Pilar said.

* * *

As he walked up the front steps, he checked his shoulder holster again. His nine-millimeter was ready to draw. He'd snap the safety off with his thumb when he pulled it. Jack looked up and read the block numerals over the door. **12004.** _Yeah_, he thought, _this is it_. He made a cursory glance over his shoulder. A deeper gaze into the dark house through the textured glass on the door.

And for a moment, he wished that Al were here, watching his back. He gritted his teeth.

Then he opened the door wide enough to step inside. Almost instantly, an awful, heavy smell caught in his nostrils, and nearly made him retch.

One of his hands shot to his mouth, and he turned his head back toward the outside for a breath of fresher air. He leaned a shoulder against the door frame, bowed his head and worked to catch his breath, like he had to expel the stink that had wormed into his lungs. Then Jack realized something truly dreadful, something that made the world seem to break into shards of glass right before his eyes.

He pushed the door shut after another deep breath, then forced himself to walk deeper into the house. With his right hand over his mouth, Jack buried his shoulder against the smooth wallpaper, held his weapon away from his body, and followed the bead down a seemingly interminable hallway.

It didn't take long for Jack to find Kendrick. Only a dozen steps or so. Jack had been counting them to time his next breath. He lost count when he saw the old oak desk that Kendrick was sitting behind.

Or what was left of him, anyway.  


**TO BE CONTINUED…**


End file.
